


9 ½ Days

by magpie_fngrl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys Kissing, Canon Divergence, Frottage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Harry Potter, Sharing a Bed, Wandlore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 11:23:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11103561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpie_fngrl/pseuds/magpie_fngrl
Summary: After the events at the Manor, Harry and Draco find themselves stranded in the countryside with a broken wand and Death Eaters on their tail. This is a story of an uneasy truce, featuring seaside caves, faerie forests, kind old ladies and a shared bed in an attic.Or how two boys fell in love in the midst of a bloody coup.





	1. Crossing The Moor Part I

**Author's Note:**

> My eternal gratitude to [Bixgirl1](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1) and [Brief and Dreamy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Brief_and_Dreamy/pseuds/Brief_and_Dreamy) for looking this over and for reassuring me that it's not totally rubbish. All remaining mistakes are mine.

**_Ohh, can't anybody see_ **

**_We've got a war to fight_ **

**_Never found our way_ **

**_Regardless of what they say_ **

**Portishead _-_** [ **_Roads_ ** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bO2xMNU9bTw)

 

* * *

 

_‘Ron, catch — and GO!’ he yelled, throwing two wands to him; then he bent down to tug Griphook out from under the chandelier. Hoisting the groaning goblin, who still clung to the sword, over one shoulder, Harry seized Dobby’s hand and he spun on the spot to Disapparate._

_As he turned into darkness, he caught one last view of the drawing room: of the pale, frozen figures of Narcissa and Draco, of the streak of red that was Ron’s hair, and a blur of flying silver, as Bellatrix’s knife flew across the room at the place where he was vanishing_ —

Harry reacted instinctively, his Seeker reflexes kicking into gear. He shoved Dobby’s hand onto the goblin’s arm, dropping the goblin to his feet, and, as his friends vanished, he grabbed the silver dagger, the blade biting his flesh. Everyone stared speechless at Harry, standing alone in the wrecked room with Malfoy’s wand in one hand and the knife in the other. Drops of blood spilled from his palm on the rose carpet, and the pain gave Harry pause.

But only for a second. Before a weaponless Bellatrix had a chance to react, before Narcissa had even thought of moving, and with his scar blinding him with pain, Harry turned on the spot to Disapparate, but he still wasn’t fast enough: a hand grabbed his wrist. Harry turned into darkness, but the person’s hands were tight on his, pulling the wand, and he thought feverishly: _not Bill and Fleur’s_ , _take me away, not Tinworth, away, away_. He twisted and fought and turned…

And found himself on a windy seaside cliff with Draco Malfoy, both of them wrestling with the wand for a brief moment, until Malfoy released it with a grunt and collapsed on the ground.

 

* * *

 

 

Panting, Harry aimed the wand. He glimpsed the unforgiving chasm behind his back and took a step sideways, while in front of him, on his knees, Malfoy clutched his shoulder, blood oozing from his robes from where he’d been Splinched. Harry took a few more careful steps, walking around Malfoy, keeping the wand trained on him. The roar of the waves drowned out any coherent thought except for the pounding of his heart, but he kept the wand steady.

Breathing heavily, Malfoy looked up, his face a portrait of fury. ‘That’s mine, you prick,’ he spat, his eyes on the wand.

‘Tough shit.’ Having put a few feet distance between them, Harry turned on the spot before Malfoy could rush him, thinking of his destination, but nothing happened. He spun again urgently, concentrating on Shell Cottage, but the magic failed him. Malfoy slowly rose and Harry pointed the wand at him and cried, ‘Stupefy!’

All the wand did was emit a thin column of acrid smoke.

Panicked, Harry called out another set of curses, but the wand let out yellow, rancid-smelling sparks.

‘What’s wrong with my wand?’ Malfoy asked, horrified.

Harry examined it, his mind refusing to accept he had a malfunctioning wand in his hands. Any last shred of hope he might have still entertained left him: a deep crack ran along the length of the wand and something silvery-white peeked from inside it. _Shit_.

‘Your wand’s ruined.’ Harry pocketed it, unwilling to part with a wand, no matter how broken, and brandished the dagger. The wind howled as it whipped the dark waves below them into fury and cut through Harry’s jumper, goosebumps erupting on his skin.

Malfoy huffed, cold and contemptuous, his eyes on his aunt’s knife. ‘Will you kill me, Potter?’ he asked, his voice taunting. Malfoy had always been a good actor, but not that good; the trembling of his hands and his shallow breathing belied his uncertainty in Harry’s benevolent nature.

It pissed Harry off. ‘I’m not like _you_ ,’ he spat. ‘Ambushing wizards in towers to kill them in cold blood.’

Malfoy flinched. A step backwards brought him almost to the edge. ‘Careful!’ Harry blurted out, as some gravel fell off the cliff and disappeared in the yawning darkness. Malfoy hurried away from the edge and Harry, holding the dagger high, retreated towards the slope behind him, eager to put some distance between the two of them, and _think._

And that’s when his scar split open and he dropped to his knees, crying in pain.

His eyes surveyed the drawing room again, Lucius, Bellatrix and Narcissa writhing on the floor, their faces contorted in agony, but for Bellatrix’s deranged, ecstatic martyr’s smile.

‘Your son should’ve reached out to me _instantly,_ ’ Harry hissed, lowering the wand.

‘Perhaps he’s hurt,’ Narcissa gasped. ‘He’s not disloyal, my Lord, he’s probably just hurt.’

‘Perhaps. Or perhaps he decided to aid Potter.’

‘No, no,’ Lucius shook his head. ‘No, he’d never do that… If you let me or my wife look for him—’

‘ _Enough_ , Lucius. You’re mistaken if you think I’ll allow you to leave this residence again. I’ll let you keep your lives, which is more than you deserve.’

‘Th-thank you, my Lord,’ said Lucius, and Bellatrix knelt and touched her forehead to Voldemort’s shoe. Narcissa simply bowed, her terrified eyes stark on her pale face.

For all their poise and arrogance, for all their vanity and talk of great deeds, the Malfoys scurried out of the room in an undignified haste and Voldemort would laugh at their blatant cowardice if he hadn’t been simmering with rage and frustration. He paced past the shattered chandelier until Rookwood and Dolohov came and kneeled at his feet.

‘My Lord?’ said Dolohov.

‘Find them,’ the cold voice said. ‘Find them and bring them both to me alive.’

‘The Malfoy boy, too?’ Rookwood dared to ask and earned a slash in the face for it.

Voldemort’s — Harry’s — long, white fingers caressed his wand. ‘I said _both_. Bring the Malfoy brat so he can die, squealing, in front of Lucius. The Malfoys need to be taken to task. I’ve allowed their incompetence to go unpunished for far too long.’ Fury coursed through his veins at the thought of Potter escaping his grasp again. ‘But don’t speak of this. Pretend their son is coming home.’ This would make it all the more painful for the Malfoys. All the more edifying a lesson.

The men bowed, foreheads on a floor still covered in broken glass and blood, and Harry came to, his scar pulsing with pain.

A soft drizzle fell on his fevered face and he took deep breaths, letting the smell of the ocean fill his lungs. He wasn’t used to this scent; the Dursleys rarely took him to the seaside with them when he was little. He found it overwhelming.

Malfoy had divested him of wand and dagger, the latter pointed at his face by a trembling hand. Malfoy shivered, his fancy robes too thin for this weather, flapping in the wind. Harry ignored Malfoy’s dagger and tried to stand up, but couldn’t. His forehead still stung and he felt clammy and weak. He dug his fingers into the soil — _his_ fingers, not Voldemort’s — and took another deep breath of salt air.

‘What happened to you?’ Malfoy asked in a quavering voice.

‘Your parents are alive,’ Harry said.

‘How do you know?’ Malfoy gasped. ‘Potter, how do— can you see— can you see _him_?’

Harry said nothing. The vision flitted in and out of his mind, pulling him back to Voldemort’s brain. Briefly, he closed his eyes: an announcement to the Malfoys that Dolohov and Rookwood were out searching for their son. _The boy will be returned to you_. Narcissa stood straight, white as marble, and Lucius knelt, a man broken and humiliated.

Harry opened his eyes again. He could keep his connection to Voldemort a secret, but what was the point anymore? ‘You-Know-Who is sending two of his Death Eaters to find us.’ Malfoy’s horrified eyes surprised him, but perhaps he had enough sense to know what that meant. ‘He told your parents he’ll bring you home but, in truth, he’s planning to kill you in front of them. To punish them.’

Malfoy looked sick, but not particularly surprised. Harry rose to his feet. ‘He Crucioed your parents. You can imagine what that was like.’

‘Stop it.’

Harry didn’t stop. ‘You can call him, you know. Get yourself out of this mess. Just touch that little Dark Mark you have on your arm and he’ll be here in a jiffy.’

‘Shut up, Potter!’

‘He wants us both. He’ll kill you to punish your father, and he’ll kill me because he’s been trying to do that my whole life, which means if the Death Eaters find us, we’re both dead.’ Harry continued, relentless. ‘This is how much you matter to him. This is how much he cares for his followers. _This_ is the man you chose to give your allegiance to.’

‘Do you think I don’t fucking know that?’ Malfoy snarled. The wind whipped his hair around his face, bright even in the darkness. ‘Do you think I don’t know by now what I’ve _done_? Did you think I was waiting for _you_ to come and _enlighten_ me about— the things I’ve _seen_ — you have no fucking clue how much I—’ He staggered back a step, breathing hard, his hand on the knife unsteady.

‘Cry me a river,’ Harry said, full of contempt. ‘Don’t expect any fucking sympathy from me. You made your bed and now you’re sleeping in it.’

Malfoy stared at him, eyes growing cold. ‘Maybe he’ll reward me if I give you to him. Maybe you’re lying.’

‘Go on then — if you’re so sure you can deliver me. Press that fucking tattoo on your arm and he’ll come. You’ll be with your parents again. Wouldn’t bet on how long.’

Harry’s heart beat frantically. If Malfoy did actually try to Summon his lord, then Harry would have to— incapacitate him in some way. His body tensed in anticipation of a fight.

However, despite his posturing, Malfoy seemed reluctant to take advantage of his direct line to Voldemort. The hand that held the dagger fell limp by his side.

‘Where the fuck are we?’ he said instead.

That was a good question. Harry had first thought of Shell Cottage, but when Malfoy grabbed him, he kept thinking ‘ _away_ ’. Did the magic take him _away_ from the cottage? Were they in Cornwall, perhaps within walking distance to Tinworth, or did they end up in Wales or, Merlin forbid, _Yorkshire_?

‘I’ve no idea.’

They were certainly in the countryside: a few pinpricks of light punctuated dark, endless fields. Headlights from a car slithered in the distance. Harry turned — he doubted Malfoy would stab him in the back, he’d had plenty of opportunity to do so when Harry lay helplessly on the ground — and set off down the hill, stumbling in the dark. He needed to figure out where he was and perhaps find somewhere to spend the night. Lost, wandless, alone, and unable to contact his friends; things couldn’t get any worse. At the thought of Ron and Hermione, his chest hurt. Were they safe? Was Hermione OK? Hate flared in his chest for Malfoy; Malfoy, who stood there and watched a young girl being tortured by his evil aunt.

Footsteps sounded behind him.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Harry snapped.

‘I’m not staying in the middle of fucking nowhere, Potter.’

‘Well, don’t bloody well follow me!’

‘I’m not following _you_ , idiot. I’m going in the same direction.’

Harry stopped and indicated he should go first. ‘Arse,’ Malfoy muttered as he passed in front of him. Harry resisted the urge to punch him.

By the time they reached the road, Malfoy at the front and Harry at his heels, the drizzle turned into rain and it was bone-chillingly cold. Reluctant to walk along a country road at night, Harry cast his eye around him. A ruin of a building loomed in the darkness, not far from Harry, and he turned towards it. From the sound of shoes trudging the soft, wet earth, Malfoy was heading that way, too.

It was farther than Harry had assumed. He let his thoughts drift back to the Manor, back to the things he’d heard there, and understanding blossomed in the darkness. His thoughts beat with the rhythm of his footsteps on the ground. Hallows… Horcruxes… Hallows… Horcruxes… The obsessive longing for the Hallows burned in him, but his worry about his friends and the predicament he found himself in had dimmed the fire. No matter how much it’d cost him to lose the holly and phoenix wand, he hadn’t had to do without one completely. Despair filled him. He felt impotent. He realised how crucial the loss of the wand was, because he was beginning to understand, and he knew — he could feel — Voldemort beginning to understand as well. He knew where the Elder Wand had been all this time and Harry, unable to stop what was about to happen, knew that he’d lost. He’d lost one of the Hallows.

He wished for so many things under that vast, dark sky: he wished he knew what Dumbledore had really wanted him to do; he wished he hadn’t failed him; he wished the next Horcrux wasn’t where he suspected it was; but most of all he wished this whole mission didn’t feel increasingly like a march to his death. He wished he was wrong about this.

The derelict stone farmhouse smelled of animals and dust, and half of the front wall had collapsed, but it had a roof and the floor was dry. It’d have to do. He sat heavily in a corner as far from Malfoy as he could.

As the fatigue of the evening washed over Harry, he dropped his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He wondered if he should keep them open, if he should be alert with Malfoy around — c _onstant vigilance_! — but he realised, as the day’s aches slowly manifested in various parts of his body, that he wasn’t afraid of Malfoy. That he actually felt safe — or rather, not _unsafe_.

Still, sounds of activity from the other boy’s corner made him look. His eyes could just make out the fair hair and the slow movements, as Malfoy unbuttoned his damp robes and winced when he uncovered the hurt shoulder. Harry struggled to make out the injury in the dark until Malfoy stood and walked to the collapsed wall, which let in what little light there was to be found that night. The skin appeared to be torn. A deep scratch, that was all. _Serves him right_.

Malfoy cupped his hand and stretched it outside, gathering rain water. He washed the wound on his shoulder, then he started on his face. He tried to extract what must have been tiny pieces of glass from the shattered chandelier, but without a mirror his job was hard. Harry could have helped him. He didn’t want to. The sight of the unconscious, tormented Hermione, too fresh in his memory, caused only uncharitable resentment. So he watched him instead, what little he could discern in the dark. Draco’s movements were careful and delicate. Neither of them spoke; not Malfoy cleaning his wounds, nor Harry watching him.

Eventually, Malfoy covered the hurt shoulder. Harry’s stomach rumbled loudly. He drew his knees close to his chest and shut his eyes, trying to forget about the hunger, the aches, the damp clothes, the helplessness. He longed for some rest, although he was too tense to imagine he’d sleep through the night.

He raised his head at the sound of approaching footsteps.

‘Here.’ Malfoy stretched out his hand, half a chocolate frog in it. ‘I had it in my pocket. Take it.’

For a second, Harry almost reached for the chocolate, but his rage over the events at the Manor took over and he told him where to shove his chocolate frog. ‘I don’t want anything from you, _ever_.’ A hunger pang almost split him in half, but he ignored it.

Malfoy’s eyes grew cold at the rejection. ‘Suit yourself.’ Staring at Harry, he bit into the chocolate. Before he turned to leave, he threw the card at Harry’s feet. ‘Take this then. He’s your hero.’

Harry picked the card up with shaking hands. Dumbledore winked at him and straightened his hat. Harry was seized by the irrational desire to shout at the image of the man who waved at him, oblivious to the feelings of grief and love and resentment warring inside Harry at the thought of his old Professor. He gave vent to his frustration, not towards the portrait of the man on the collector’s card, but to the flesh and blood man sitting some feet away.

‘Can’t stand to see the man you almost killed?’

‘How about you shut up?’ 

‘Is that why you tried to stop me? To prove yourself to your Master?’

Malfoy didn’t speak for a moment. ‘I’m not sure I was trying to stop you.’

‘Then what were you trying to do? Come with me? _Join my side_? Do you really think I’ll buy that?’

‘I just wanted my fucking wand back, Potter.’

‘Rich bloke like you can’t get another wand? Oh, but of course — unlikely to find a decent one when you put the wandmaker in chains in your dungeon.’

‘That had _nothing_ to do with me,’ Malfoy hissed.

‘Everything to do with your father.’

‘How thick can you get, Potter? Do you believe we have a say what happens in our house anymore? We live at the pleasure of the Dark Lord. Or not, as the case might be; as you, so helpfully, have witnessed in whatever creepy way you— _h_ _old on_ , can _he_ read your mind, too? Can he see where you are?’

‘He won’t.’ Harry pressed his knees to his chest and hoped he was right. He shivered under his damp clothes and the constant rumblings from his stomach made him wish he’d accepted the chocolate frog.

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘I am.’

‘How _Potter_.’ A pause, then gently, ‘Can you see where he is now?’

Harry hated how easy it was to do that. Closing his eyes and sinking into the connection, he could see Voldemort’s mind reaching the same conclusion about the Elder Wand. He could see Voldemort Apparating into Hogsmeade, walking the quiet, familiar streets on his way to the castle. ‘He’s— far north. He’s after a wand.’

Malfoy shuffled a little. ‘It’s all about the wand. You were raised by Muggles, you have no idea. No wand means you’re more useless than flobberworms. Did you hear what Aunt Bella said to my father? That he lost his authority when he lost his wand? _That’s_ why I grabbed you, Potter. I’d rather lose an arm than my wand.’

‘Well, now you’ll lose more than that.’

Malfoy chuckled mirthlessly. ‘In case it’s escaped your notice, we’re both screwed, Potter.’

‘Thanks to you,’ Harry snapped. ‘Always fucking everything up for me.’

‘If you think our past history played any role in me grabbing you tonight, you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.’

‘It didn’t?’ Harry’s voice dripped with sarcasm. ‘Sure.’

‘It might surprise you to know this, but I _don’t_ hate you, Potter.’ The _anymore_ went unsaid. ‘There are worse things that an attention-seeking, specky git. If you were in school this year, you’d know.’

Harry ignored the insults, but the mention of Hogwarts piqued his curiosity. Snape was Headmaster and Malfoy ought to have loved lording it over everyone else with impunity, but his voice betrayed barely contained disgust. ‘How was school?’

‘Horrendous. The only good thing about the shit we’re in now is that I won’t have to go back.’

They didn’t speak much after that. Harry started feeling drowsy, the soft patter of the rain calming his heartbeats, soothing his burning mind; sleep started creeping in. Harry would have to think of a plan, how to get himself out of this situation. But first, with a last look at Malfoy’s curled, silent figure, he lay on the hard floor and let sleep take him.

~*~

Grey light woke Harry from a cold, troubled sleep. He took stock of his body before he got up: his head was heavy, his muscles ached, his stomach was seriously empty. He felt colder than he’d ever felt in his life, a chill under his skin that he couldn’t shake off. This was how it would have been if Hermione hadn’t packed her beaded bag with all the essentials. He felt a sudden pang of nostalgia for the tent, a palace compared to this musty ruin, what with the beds and blankets, the hot shower, and the woodstove.

Malfoy was sitting on the collapsed wall, facing the dew-covered fields that stretched in the distance. Harry came to stand next to him. The fresh, wet grass smell grounded him and dispelled the memory of the troubling dream. Often, after dreams or visions of Voldemort, Harry felt disconnected from his body, disoriented to be back in himself, and it troubled him more than anything. At such moments he needed touch or smell or taste; strong sensations to remind him he occupied _his_ body; that he was Harry, and not an extension of Voldemort, a feeling that he couldn’t shake off and which terrified him.

A low mist hung over the land, clinging to the grass, swirling slowly with drifts of wind. Everything felt dreamlike and Harry wondered if he wasn’t, in fact, sleeping: never could he imagine that one day he’d end up stranded in the countryside with Draco Malfoy.

‘They’re doing blood magic,’ Malfoy said conversationally. ‘I can feel it under my skin. But they don’t have my actual blood, they’re probably using my parents’, so they won’t be able to track me down.’

‘Blood magic?’

‘For tracking. It’s an old pureblood spell. Keep a drop of your child’s blood in a glass vial and you’ll find him if he’s ever kidnapped. But a few years ago I destroyed the vial my mother kept. There’s all sorts of dark magic you can do with someone’s blood.’

Harry knew. He touched the forearm where Wormtail had slashed his skin.

Draco didn’t notice. ‘That’s why I make sure I never leave a single drop around at the Manor, not with all those… thugs coming and going.’

‘ _Thugs_? Your parents’ friends?’ Harry scoffed.

‘Greyback and some others aren’t my parents’ friends.’

‘Sure. They just work for them.’

‘They work for _him_!’ Malfoy snapped.

Harry didn’t pursue the subject any more; an argument required more energy than he had to spare at the moment. Still, he marvelled at Malfoy’s insistence on distancing himself from the Master he so eagerly agreed to serve two years ago. They stayed silent for a while, both glaring at the sky as if it was its fault they were helpless.

Harry rubbed his palm. ‘I’ve left some of my blood in the Manor.’

Malfoy looked at him in alarm. His eyes fell on Harry’s open palm and the soft, swollen pink tissue where the dagger had nicked him.

‘Do you feel a tug? Under your belly button?’

‘No. Is that what it feels like?’

‘Yes, and a silver thread connects your body to the blood. But, not to fret,’ he said. ‘If we’re lucky, the house-elves have cleaned up the mess already. Hopefully, no one will realise it’s _your_ precious blood on our floor.’

Luck didn’t seem to be on Harry’s side lately. ‘What happens if they do the spell?’

Malfoy met his eyes. ‘They find you,’ he said simply. ‘Within minutes.’

It seemed the bad news wouldn’t stop. Harry had to hope the Malfoy house-elves performed their duties with diligence, but he couldn’t worry about it now. His priority was to find a way to Tinworth and his friends.

‘There’s a way to confuse the spell,’ Malfoy said, staring at the fields. ‘Mix your blood with someone else’s. Willingly.’

‘How?’

‘We both cut into our palms and hold hands. That’s all. We figured it out as kids, when Vincent’s mother — _so_ controlling — kept using the spell when we played Quidditch for too long in the gardens.’

‘So I’m supposed to trust you with my blood? Thanks, but no thanks.’

Malfoy pressed his lips tight. ‘Suit yourself.’

Harry examined Malfoy’s profile in silence. He couldn’t understand why he was being helpful, except to assume he had an ulterior motive. ‘I’m going to find out where we are,’ Harry said, setting off across the field. Wordlessly, Malfoy followed him.

They trudged through muddy fields and along a tree-lined path that lead to the country road. The temperature rose slightly as they walked, drying their still damp clothing. Harry knew what he must look like if Malfoy’s appearance was anything to go by. He felt damp _everywhere_ , mud covered his trouser legs, and he probably smelled quite bad. Malfoy was all of that plus he sported a bloody shoulder.

Harry stared at him walking ahead with long strides and a straight back. He wondered whether Malfoy regretted his hasty decision to regain his wand. Harry’s brain, rested and calmer, reminded him of Malfoy’s refusal to identify Harry; the fear in his eyes when he saw the prisoners. He remembered how Malfoy’d offered the chocolate; a startling gesture of kindness that Harry hadn’t thought possible coming from him. Malfoy marched ahead, and Harry wondered if he felt as lost as Harry did; if he felt as unmoored, drifting down a swift current to a likely fatal end.

Shortly, they arrived at a sign that read: _Camelford 4 miles_. Harry tried to remember what he knew about UK geography — not much — but Malfoy recognised the name, explaining its link to the Arthurian legends. ‘We’re in Cornwall. Is that where you wanted to go?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’

Malfoy rolled his eyes. ‘If you think this is an elaborate plan to spy on you and your precious Order, I wish you’d give me credit to concoct a scheme that wouldn’t end with my imminent death by snake.’

‘And I hope you don’t expect me to trust your word, because you’ll be disappointed.’

They marched along the road single file as the day brightened. Finally, some good news: now that he knew he was in Cornwall, Harry was certain he could walk to Tinworth; only he didn’t know where exactly Camelford was situated and also how to find Tinworth, since it wouldn’t appear on Muggle maps. Malfoy might know, but there’s no way he’d trust him with his intended destination. As he walked, Harry took out his broken wand from his pouch and then the shard of mirror where he’d seen the blue eye, desperately hoping for the eye to save him again. This time he could only see himself. He decided against attempting to Summon Dobby. He wasn’t even sure if the same magic that tied him to Kreacher tied him to the free elf, but he couldn’t afford the chance that Dobby had been taken, the same way Kreacher had been compromised. The last thing he needed was Death Eaters Apparating along with the elves, while Harry was defenceless.

By the time they reached the town, Harry was famished. His examination of his pockets had resulted in one positive discovery: a crumpled tenner, courtesy of the Snatchers’ ignorance of Muggle money. Harry stopped in front of a bakery, practically drooling at the shop window with the pastries and the rolls, and Malfoy paused next to him.

‘Looking at the food is worse,’ he said.

Harry said, ‘I’ve Muggle money. I won’t be just looking.’ He went inside.

When he came out, Malfoy had left. Harry took in the town, the shops, Muggle life chugging along, and the enormity of his current catastrophe hit him. He also felt unexpectedly alone. It was odd; although Malfoy was the last person he wanted to spend time with, there was comfort being with someone who shared his predicament. He dreaded to think how things would have turned out for him had he set out on his own without Ron and Hermione. He’d have gone mad. Harry had never thought consciously before of how much he owed to them for their company, let alone everything else, and his chest ached with how much he missed them.

Camelford’s narrow streets led to a pretty river where Malfoy sat on a bench in muddy, bloody robes, attracting hostile looks from the locals. Harry stood for a moment, clutching his purchases, and watched him. Malfoy looked defeated, head in his hands, staring at the ground. A little voice told Harry that he could leave. He owed nothing to Malfoy. He could simply walk away and start figuring out how to reach his friends.

Instead, Harry approached him. ‘This is for you.’

Malfoy’s eyes widened in surprise when he saw the proffered Cornish pasty in Harry’s hand.

He wondered if Malfoy would throw it back in his face, the way Harry had with the chocolate. But Malfoy, unlike Harry, didn’t let his pride override common sense. He thanked Harry, unwrapped the pasty, and bit into it while Harry sat on the next bench, eating his own and sipping from a bottle of orange juice. His shopping had left him with about three quid. That was nothing to go on in the Muggle world.

‘I’m going to try and make it to Tinworth,’ Malfoy said, balling up the wrapping. He threw the ball in the nearest bin and gave a small smile when it landed neatly inside. ‘It’s a wizarding village in Cornwall. There’s bound to be someone there who can fix my wand — or at least, a second-hand wand shop.’

Harry realised it’d be hard to disguise the fact he was also going to Tinworth if they bumped into each other along the way. ‘I think I’m gonna head there, too,’ he admitted. He turned to Malfoy. ‘You’ll buy a wand? Do you even have money with you?’

‘Of course,’ Malfoy said, ‘I always carry a few galleons.’

A few turned out to be nine pieces, something close to a hundred and eighty pounds. Malfoy put the coins back in his pocket and said carefully, ‘We’re both on the run, Potter. Both going to Tinworth.’

The implication of what he was suggesting hit Harry with sudden clarity.

‘I have gold,’ Malfoy continued. ‘You have Muggle knowledge. We can help each other get there.’

Harry’s mind warned him about everything that could go wrong — about the madness of trusting a Malfoy. But he didn’t like the alternative and he had to admit Malfoy’s suggestion made sense. Besides, Harry needn't mention Shell Cottage. As soon as they reached Tinworth, he’d clear off and leave Malfoy to his own schemes.

‘Alright then,’ he heard himself say.

Malfoy’s shoulders relaxed. ‘Truce?’  

The river sang softly behind them and Harry thought he must have gone mad after all.

‘Truce.’ 


	2. Crossing The Moor Part II

Half an hour later, they stood outside the tourist information office and pored over the county map. Passers-by gave them a wide berth and the assistant behind the counter had been borderline rude to them, eyeing them from top to bottom, his mouth curling with contempt and maybe a little fear.

The map bore more bad news. Camelford was in north Cornwall and, from what Malfoy remembered, Tinworth was near Falmouth, at the south. ‘Just off Cadgwith,’ he said, pointing at a dot that looked _very_ far away from Camelford.

‘Getting there will take us  _days_.’ Days of endless walking, without shelter or the means to buy food. Harry put his face in his hands. Fuck, fuck and _fuck_. He couldn’t catch a break.

‘Can we use one of those Muggle contraptions?’ Malfoy pointed at a passing car. ‘They seem to be going fast.’

But of course! Harry chided himself for not thinking it earlier. ‘We need to be able to drive and I can’t. But we could hitchhike.’ To Malfoy’s non-comprehending glance, he explained, ‘Ask a driver to give us a lift.’

‘Would they do that?’

Harry took in their clothes. ‘Not looking like this.’

Armed with a couple of galleons, Harry, with Malfoy trailing behind him, entered every clothes shop they could find. Harry explained that they were offering real gold for the cheapest items of clothing on offer, but the assistants’ appalled reactions to the state of them — and Malfoy’s robes — doomed the negotiations before they even started. Malfoy seemed shocked at being treated this way; a completely new experience for him.

An hour later, cranky from being turned out from everywhere, they came across an Oxfam in an alley off the high street.

‘Last chance,’ Harry murmured.

A bell tinkled as they entered. Books covered the shelves on the left wall, knick knacks the ones on the right. At the back of the narrow shop stood racks of clothing. The lady behind the till, an orange-haired, middle-aged woman, lifted her eyes at the sound of the bell and frowned at the sight of them. Harry sighed. He braced himself for rejection, but then spotted a Tatler on the counter next to her tea, a few more copies on the floor beside her. He remembered his aunt’s fascination with the magazine and had an idea.  

Turning to Malfoy, Harry pressed the galleons in his palm. ‘You do the talking this time.’

‘ _Me_? I can’t talk to Muggles, I’ll say the wrong thing.’

‘Your accent,’ Harry explained. ‘She might be more inclined to help a toff out.’

‘Is this your plan? Seriously, Potter?’

Harry glowered at him and, sighing, Malfoy straightened his back and approached the lady. His accent, when he addressed her, was sharp as glass.

‘Excuse me.’ The woman’s head lifted slowly and stared at Malfoy, who drawled more imperiously than ever. ‘I was wondering if you could be of assistance.’

She might not have liked the look of them, but the accent worked on her as it was meant to. Accents of privilege had their own magic in the Muggle world.

‘You’re not from around here.’ She eyed Malfoy with curiosity.

‘Of course not,’ Malfoy sneered.

The lady seemed impressed by his outright condescension, confirming that he was truly of his class. However, she still seemed wary. Her eyes kept straying from Malfoy’s bloody shoulder to his robes. ‘Are you from London?’

‘Sure,’ Harry chimed in. He glanced at the picture of Lady Di on the assistant’s mug and was struck by another desperate idea. ‘I don’t know if you’ve recognised him, but Fenston here is seventeenth in line to the throne.’ He crossed his fingers behind his back, hoping the lady didn’t know the order of succession too well.

‘Sixteenth,’ Malfoy corrected, and Harry pressed his lips to stop himself from snorting.

The lady’s eyes widened.

‘We were travelling in the area when we were beset by thieves. They took everything,’ Malfoy said, warming up to his role. ‘We got lost, hurt… you can’t _possibly_ imagine the day we’ve had. We seek to buy some clothing, but we have no Mug—’ Harry elbowed him, ‘—no money, apart from these gold coins.’

He presented the two galleons and she examined them with interest.

‘What intricate carvings.’

‘They’re old palace coins,’ Harry improvised. ‘Collector's items.’ He added desperately, ‘I promise you they’re worth something. A lot, actually.’

‘And who are you then?’ she demanded from Harry, whose accent certainly didn’t suggest royalty.

Malfoy and Harry shared a look.

‘My er… ’

‘His — valet,’ Harry said.

‘My valet,’ Malfoy confirmed. He leaned close to the woman and said in a confidential tone, ‘Rather an inexperienced one, and still _quite_ disobedient, but it’s _impossible_ to find proper service nowadays.’

Malfoy could out-posh the Crown Heir. Harry worried that Malfoy might be laying it on too thick, but the woman beamed at being addressed with such familiarity.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t know.’ She gestured at his robes. ‘I guess you need a valet to help you wear — whatever this is. Were you at a special event, my love?’

Malfoy glanced at Harry, who nodded furtively. ‘Yes,’ Malfoy confirmed. Her eager eyes lit up, she opened her mouth to ask something, but Malfoy stopped her in her tracks. ‘I wish I could tell you more, but any details need to remain _confidential_. I truly can’t say anymore without divulging state secrets.’

This time Harry couldn’t keep in his laughter. He turned his back to them and pretended to cough.

‘Well, let me pop to Kevin in the bank and check about the gold really quick,’ the shop assistant said. ‘If everything’s in order, I’ll be happy to sell you what you need. I’ll ask Pauline from next door to keep an eye on the shop. Clothing’s at the back.’

She left, the bell tinkling behind her, and Malfoy turned to Harry. ‘ _Fenston_? Is that the best you could come up with?’

Harry had moved to the clothing section and was browsing jumpers. He shrugged. ‘It got the job done.’

‘Ugh, what is wrong with these clothes?’ Malfoy pinched his nose as he stopped next to him. ‘They have a… smell.’

‘They’re second-hand. Donated. Oxfam is a charity.’

 _‘Spiffing_.’

Harry was trying on a pair of dark jeans and a jumper behind the curtain that turned a corner of the shop into a changing room when Pauline, a tall woman in a flowery dress with an impressive array of jingly bracelets, dropped in. She introduced herself, curtseyed at Malfoy (Harry snorted behind the curtain) and engaged him in a conversation about the Queen and her corgis. Harry hastened to leave the changing room. He doubted Malfoy knew anything about the Queen, let alone her dogs, and allowing him to run with his mouth could prove disastrous.

‘Time for you to change,’ Harry said to Malfoy. ‘Er, sir.’

Malfoy graciously extricated himself from the conversation and gathered the bundle of clothing he’d selected, which included — to Harry’s alarm — a purple frilly blouse and a pair of silvery tights. The memory of the wizard Archie in his nightdress at the Quidditch World Cup flashed in Harry's mind and his mouth dried with terror. The lies they’d told stood on shaky ground and would certainly collapse if Malfoy left the changing room in _tights_. He was simply too weird — too magical — to be left unsupervised, but Harry’s brain provided no immediate solutions as to how to stop this train wreck from happening.

And then, surprisingly, Pauline did. ‘Shouldn’t your valet help you with that?’

‘Shouldn’t… oh.’ Malfoy looked at Harry and, oddly, blushed.  

‘Isn’t that what the valet does?’ Pauline continued. ‘That’s what they show in all them programmes. _Upstairs Downstairs_ , and what have you.’

Harry grabbed the opportunity with both hands. ‘But of course. It’s my job.’ He shoved Malfoy into the tiny space and drew the curtain behind them.

‘I don’t think this is going to work,’ Malfoy whispered, as they pressed very close together with no room for him to take off his robes without bumping into Harry.

‘I wouldn’t have to come in here if you had any idea how to dress like a Muggle,’ Harry whispered back. He grabbed Malfoy’s selection from his hands and rummaged through it. A pair of pale jeans and a white T-shirt presented the only possibilities, so he shoved them in Malfoy’s hands.

‘But—’ Malfoy pointed at the blouse.

‘You’ll ruin everything.’ Harry left the changing room and started putting the clothes back.

‘Have you dressed him already, my love?’ Pauline said from behind the counter. ‘In the shows, it always takes a long time to properly dress a lord.’

‘No, um, I’m just returning these.’

‘I’ll put them back for you, my love. You carry on with your job.’ She took the bundle and smiled. Harry stood there, uncertainly, until he realised he would indeed have to return to the changing room and undress Malfoy.

When Harry drew the curtain behind him, Malfoy glared. ‘Well fucking done, Potter.’

‘I should have left you walk out of here in silver tights,’ Harry hissed. He wanted nothing more than to leave Malfoy to mess up his outfit to his heart's content, but he had no choice, not with Pauline hovering nearby and the curtain being rather short and the success of their transaction resting on this stupid lie. Malfoy looked like Harry dressing him was the last thing he wanted, too; probably resenting the fact that Harry Potter, a half-blood, Undesirable Number One, was going to lay his hands on him. Harry’s temper flared and he felt tempted to rub his hands all over Malfoy just to piss him off some more.

But it wouldn’t do any good to start a fight. So he crouched and unlaced Malfoy’s shoes. He cradled each foot, making sure Malfoy held the wall for balance, and removed the shoe and the sock. It felt strange, touching Malfoy’s bare feet. _Intimate._ Harry’s skin tingled with how weird this was, and his temper evaporated, leaving behind an intense awkwardness.

He looked up when he finished to see Malfoy stare, dark-eyed and flushed. Malfoy was breathing strangely, the expression on his face undecipherable.

‘What?’ Harry asked.

‘Nothing,’ Malfoy said, turning to the wall. ‘Find me a jacket. That sounds like a valet’s job.’

Harry left the changing room with relief, his pulse racing erratically. He nodded to Pauline, ‘Sir asked for a jacket’, and made a hasty selection before he ducked inside the curtain.

Malfoy, topless, still faced the wall and was buttoning up his new jeans. They drew attention to his body in a way the robes didn't. The muscles on his back moved as he lifted his arms to put on the T-shirt, his left shoulder somewhat stiff. Harry had a moment to wonder at how _thin_ Malfoy looked before the T-shirt covered the fair skin.

Harry cleared his throat. ‘I found this parka that might be a little too large for you. But it’ll be warm. And a bomber jacket.’

Malfoy glanced at the items in Harry’s hands. ‘You might enjoy wearing oversized garments, Potter, but I don’t.’

‘The bomber jacket won’t be warm enough if we have to spend the night outdoors,’ Harry insisted. ‘Unless you choose a jumper, like I did.’ Harry had found a red jumper with green and grey diamonds, almost as fluffy as one of Mrs Weasley’s.

‘I don’t do patterns.’ Malfoy turned the bomber jacket in his hands, running a hand over the fabric.

Harry sighed, exasperated. Trust Malfoy to be infuriating even in the midst of disaster. ‘You’ll freeze to death. Trust me. I know how cold it gets out there.’

With a curious glance at Harry, Malfoy stepped outside the changing room and found a mirror. ‘It’s April, not the middle of winter. I’ll surv— I’ll survive.’

His voice cracked and his face flooded with pain. It lasted for a second before a calm, blank expression smoothed his features again, but Harry had seen the depths of the despair in Malfoy’s grey eyes. Harry shared the feeling; it was the kind of despair you feel when you don’t know if you’ll live to see eighteen.

To cover his momentary display of vulnerability, Malfoy put the bomber jacket aside and stood with open arms, imperial and haughty, an invitation for Harry to dress him. Pauline beamed at the sight of a ritual she would never herself experience. Harry stepped closer and put the parka on Malfoy. It was large in the shoulders and perhaps a little too long, but the olive colour suited him. His eyes met Malfoy’s in the mirror, and Malfoy looked away.

‘I’ll take this one after all,’ he murmured.

Browsing for a jacket of his own, Harry listened to Pauline’s efforts to strike up another conversation with Malfoy about his royal family and prayed he wouldn’t fuck anything up.

‘You must have been devastated last summer,’ she said, shaking her head sadly.

‘Er… naturally,’ Malfoy said, looking at Harry questioningly. Harry shrugged.

‘I don’t think I was ever sadder than when I heard Lady Di died,’ Pauline continued.

‘Lady Diana is _dead_?’ Harry blurted out.

‘Didn’t you know that?’ Suspicion gathered in Pauline’s eyes and Harry froze, his mind frantically searching for a way to cover the faux-pas.

Malfoy must have realised they were about to get caught out, because he said, ‘See this, Pauline? I have been _worried_. The thieves knocked him about on the head and I fear it must have caused some brain damage. Who could forget about dear Lady Diana’s demise? _Such_ a tragedy.’

The return of the shop assistant spared them as well as her announcement that the coins were pure gold. She rang up their purchases. Harry stuffed their own dirty clothing in a plastic bag, while Malfoy opened the map and inquired about the fastest way to Falmouth ‘so he could tell his driver.’

‘I promise you, the palace won’t forget the kindness you’ve shown me,’ Malfoy told the beaming ladies from the door. Harry shoved him out of the store, his mouth twitching.

They spent one of Harry’s last three pounds buying a loaf of bread and, finally, in mid-morning they left Camelford, taking the road south.

‘You almost ruined everything back there with your big mouth,’ Malfoy told him.

‘Shut up, Fenston.’

Malfoy looked very different with his white tee and worn jeans, Harry thought, as they walked along the road, sticking their thumb out at the approaching cars. In fact, he reminded Harry of an old Muggle film star who’d died young and whose films Aunt Petunia watched often, especially when Uncle Vernon went down the local. Malfoy still had the veneer of the landed gentry coating his words, his posture, his sneer; but without his expensive clothing, he looked as if he was missing a piece of his armour.

~*~

They’d left the town behind them — their hitchhiking efforts unsuccessful — and had stopped at a petrol station to use the facilities when Harry felt a harsh tug in his gut and doubled in surprise. A faint, silver thread grew from his belly button and spinned in the air towards the north.

‘Shit,’ Malfoy cried and dragged him to the back of the building, out of sight of the Muggles.  ‘They’ll be here any minute.’

Cold dread filled Harry. ‘We need to do something.’

Malfoy took out the dagger. ‘Only one way, Potter.’ He cut the flesh of his palm and stretched it towards Harry.

Harry stared at the blood spilling from the cut, his mind frantic and conflicted. He couldn’t — he just couldn’t trust Malfoy with his blood. What if he was going to sell him out? What if this had all been a ruse? Truce or no truce, Malfoy was his enemy.

Malfoy glared. ‘I’m more than happy to stab you myself, don’t get me wrong, but the counterjinx won’t work that way. You have to be _willing_.’

Harry looked into his eyes — grey, wide, terrified beneath the irritation —  and made his decision. He grabbed the dagger and slashed his hand, wincing a little. He clutched Malfoy’s palm, bringing the cuts together, mixing the blood. Harry’s wound stung like hell, but they both held tight, their eyes on the silver thread that slowly faded into wisps — and then nothing. The tug stopped and Harry breathed out heavily. He glanced at their handshake and met Malfoy’s eyes, who let go quickly.

‘We need to get out of here,’ Malfoy said. ‘They won’t be able to track you down from now on, but they’ll be able to reach this—’

Before he finished his words, the crack of Apparition sounded. They both froze. It came from the front of the station and Harry, ignoring Malfoy’s furious whispers, looked carefully around the corner.

There they were, in their velvet robes, standing out among the Muggles. Both men glanced at the station and the road and conversed quietly. Harry couldn’t hear what they said, but one of them pointed to the town and the other one in the other direction. They split up. Harry returned to Malfoy, who looked paler than he’d ever seen him, and pointed at the hedge behind the station. As quietly as they could, they headed for the nearest opening and hid behind the hedge, Harry’s heart beating so loud that he could swear Rookwood would hear it.

They peeked through the leaves at the wizard who walked south for a while, jumping when cars sped past him. Rookwood stopped and turned in a 360 degree circle, his eyes sliding over the hedge they were hidden behind.

‘C’mon,’ Harry nudged Malfoy, ‘we need to get away before he decides to check behind the station.’

‘They don’t know we don’t have a wand,’ Malfoy said, but followed Harry. ‘They’ll assume we Disapparated.’

‘Let’s hope they don’t figure it out soon,’ Harry said.

They crossed a field until they reached a hedge, and then another. The more hedges they passed, the more distance they put between them and the motorway, the more Harry calmed. His breathing returned to normal. The danger was behind them, but it had been a close call. When they reached the River Camel, flowing among a wooded strip of land, heavy and swollen with the spring rains, they stopped for a bite of bread.

Malfoy spread open the map on the ground and they both leaned over it. He traced his finger across the routes available to them.

‘We should stay off the road,’ Malfoy said. His finger moved southeast and tapped a name: Bodmin Moor. ‘If we cross the Moor, we’ll get to the south coast by tonight. Or maybe tomorrow morning. And then it’s just straight down along the coast.’

It felt good to have a plan. ‘So they won’t be able to track me down again?’ Harry broke off a large piece of the loaf and gave half to Malfoy.

Malfoy leaned on the elm they were sheltering under. ‘No. They’ll be able to sense a general direction if they do it again, and that’s only if they haven’t used up all the blood. The incantation burns it off.’

Harry could hope that Rookwood and Dolohov had been stupid enough to use up the few drops he’d left behind, but that’s not how his life went so far. Besides, if Bellatrix was involved— Harry shivered. The woman scared him more than any other Death Eater; she was as intelligent as she was ruthless.

He tried to change the subject. ‘So your parents feared you might be kidnapped?’

‘I’m worth a _lot_ of gold, Potter,’ Malfoy smirked. Light and shadow played on his face as the foliage rustled in the breeze. Once again, a flash of pain creased his forehead for a split second, but Malfoy set his jaw in a determined way. Harry assumed he’d been thinking of his parents. The same feeling visited Harry, the same _unsteadiness_ he’d been feeling all day when he caught glimpses of emotion and vulnerability behind the mask Malfoy hurried to put on. It disturbed Harry, this uneasiness that settled in his chest. His mind warned him that it could only mean one thing: deception. This could all be a ruse, making Malfoy look like a decent person before the carpet was pulled under Harry’s feet.

His mind landed on a recent piece of information Malfoy had shared. ‘Hold on. You said Crabbe’s mother used to track him down with the blood spell, _repeatedly_. If it uses up the blood…’

‘… she pricked his thumb — or worse — _repeatedly_ ,’ Malfoy said. His voice was grim, barely audible among the murmuring river and the birdsong. ‘His parents wanted to control every aspect of his life. No wonder he went full dark this year.’

‘What do you mean?’

Malfoy grimaced. ‘When a boy like Vince, struggling under his parents’ pressure his whole life, is offered a way to vent his rage — well, the result isn't good. For anyone.’

Perhaps being cryptic was Malfoy’s natural way of speech. Harry had never spoken to him long enough to realise. He finished his bread. Feeling the warm, rough bark of the tree on his back, he closed his eyes and entertained the idea of a nap.

‘Hey,’ Malfoy shook him. ‘We need to find a bridge to cross the river if we’re heading east. We’ve got a long way to go.’

Harry sighed, but stood. They packed the loaf and set off.

It was a dry day, not particularly warm, and ideal for walking. They found a bridge across the Camel, and passed a cluster of cottages, grazing sheep, a group of tourists on a walking tour to Rough Tor, and a party of pixies, which thankfully ignored them in favour of harassing cattle. Soon the fields and pastures gave way to the desolate expanse of the moor. The windswept, vast space filled Harry with trepidation. They’d be completely exposed, unable to hide if anyone tracked them here.

They had no choice. They kept walking, keeping the sun to their right.

‘There’s loads of stories about the moor,’ Malfoy said as they walked. He rambled about the Arthurian legends associated with it. ‘Some people say Dozmary pool is where Arthur found the Excalibur.’

Harry cast a sideways glance at Malfoy. ‘You know a lot about this.’

‘When I was little, King Arthur was my favourite. I mean, sure, everyone loves Merlin, but Arthur was a true hero, you know? I devoured everything about him. Him and—’ he paused.

‘And?’ Harry asked, when the silence stretched.

‘Nevermind.’ Malfoy didn’t speak again.

A couple of hours later, nearing the famous Dozmary pool, and just as Harry was about to suggest a break to rest his aching calves and blistered feet, Malfoy turned abruptly behind them.

‘Wh— ‘

‘Shush! Listen!’

Harry listened. Sound travelled in the wind, but he couldn’t decipher— yes, he heard it then. ‘Dogs?’

‘It’s hounds,’ Malfoy said, in utter terror. ‘Run! Into the pool!’

They dashed pell mell towards the lake. Harry’s chest burned with the effort of running full tilt, unsure of how long his breath would last. There was nowhere to hide; if the Death Eaters saw them, they’d Apparate immediately beside them.  

The lake came closer, widening, and Harry and Malfoy fell in the cold, murky water, scaring the birds that took off with loud cries. Malfoy grabbed Harry and pulled him towards a patch of tall reeds, a little off the shore. Letting go of Harry’s hand, he sank under the surface and reappeared, rubbing his streaming face. Then he reached out and touched the back of Harry’s head. Harry stiffened.

‘I’m not trying to drown you. Put your head under water so they won’t smell you. Hurry. I’ll hold your glasses.’ When Harry hesitated, he whispered, ‘I haven’t given you any reason to distrust me this last day, Potter.’

‘Yet.’ Still, Harry handed this glasses to Malfoy and sank briefly under the surface. He rose, shaking his wet hair, and felt Malfoy’s hand on his forearm, pulling him deeper in the reeds, further away from the shore.

Just in time. Three dogs and two familiar figures appeared in the horizon. Harry and Malfoy crouched low, only their heads above the water, and tried to breathe quietly. Malfoy still held him tight. Harry could feel Malfoy’s heart beating madly against his arm.

‘They’re around here somewhere,’ said a gruff voice, when the vicious barks and the footsteps reached the edge of the water.

‘No way. They’ll have Disapparated already.’

‘Nah, didn’t you see the birds? Something startled them.’

Harry kept as still as possible, holding his breath. In every other fight in his life, he’d had a wand. He tried to think of what he could use as a weapon, but he knew nothing could stand against magic.

‘Accio Malfoy!’ said the second man.

‘You know Accio doesn’t work on wizards, Augustus,’ Dolohov sighed.

‘It don’t hurt to try,’ Rookwood grumbled. He held a shirt in his hand and offered it to the dogs, which sniffed it and returned to the lake shore, trying to pick up the scent. They moved along the shore, unable to track them down.

‘Useless fucking dogs!’ Dolohov cursed. ‘Magically trained, my arse. Goyle is full of shit. Greyback would have been a better choice. The werewolves can smell better than the mutts.’

‘Don’t let Goyle hear you say that,’ Rookwood chuckled.

‘I’m glad you find this amusing,’ Dolohov said in icy tones. ‘You do remember that if we don’t find the boy — or boys — our necks are on the line.’

‘Look,’ Rookwood growled, ‘I just don’t think Malfoy’s here. He’d be stupid if he didn’t Disapparate when he heard the dogs.’

‘And I think it’s no coincidence we tracked them both in this area. I reckon they might even be together.’

‘ _Malfoy_ _helping Potter_?’ Rookwood whistled.

‘Either that or he’s his prisoner. But there’s something for them here,’ Dolohov insisted. ‘Go check that cottage, Augustus.’

A solitary cottage stood on the far shore. With a crack, Rookwood Disapparated and Dolohov performed a Sonorous. ‘Hey, Malfoy Junior,’ he said. ‘Show yourself. Hand over Potter, if you have him. If you come home, all will be forgiven. If you don’t, well… the Master has promised to kill your parents. And you _know_ he always keeps his promises.’

This time, Harry grabbed Malfoy urgently. _It’s a lie_ , he mouthed at him, hoping Malfoy would believe him. He never thought there would be a time in his life when he’d say these words to Malfoy, but he did now. _Trust me. It’s a lie._

_Trust me._

Malfoy’s eyes were wide on his face, slick with lakewater. Dolohov kept yelling about what Voldemort promised, threats and rewards mixed with the barking of the dogs and the wind whistling through the reeds, and Harry stared, unblinkingly, at Malfoy’s face.

_Trust me._

After some tense seconds, Malfoy relaxed and lowered his head. Harry breathed again, but didn’t let go.

A crack interrupted Dolohov’s speech. ‘Find anything?’

‘Two Muggles. Used Legilimency on them. They didn’t see anyone.’

‘I hope you took care of them.’

Rookwood scoffed. ‘Of course I did.’

Harry’s blood chilled and he shared a terrified look with Malfoy, but he had no more time to contemplate the murder Rookwood spoke of so casually, when the dogs burst in furious barks.

‘Cornish pixies…’ Rookwood growled. ‘I hate Cornish pixies.’

‘There’s a spell— ah, fuck it.’ Dolohov called the dogs to him and they Disapparated, leaving behind them a brief silence broken by the buzzing of the pixies. The creatures flew around the boys, pulled Malfoy’s nose and Harry’s hair, and disappeared towards the west with a shrill sound that echoed in Harry’s ears for a long moment.

‘I didn’t think we could get more fucked, but it appears I was wrong,’ Malfoy said as they waded out. He held their loaf for inspection. It was soaked and completely disgusting.

‘Perhaps it’ll be fine once dry?’ Harry dared to hope.

Cutting it into pieces, Malfoy scattered it on the shore, attracting all manner of birds. He stood there, wings fluttering around him, as he threw piece after piece in the air and some in the lake, sinking with a _plop_. ‘It’ll go mouldy probably. Besides, this is a thank you to the lake. It saved us.’

This was Dumbledore’s kind of magic, Harry wanted to say. Instead, he watched him. Malfoy’s T-shirt was stuck on his body, every contour of his chest visible under the white fabric. The parka must have weighed a ton when wet. He was shaking.

‘Are you alright?’

Malfoy didn’t reply. He threw the last few pieces of bread in the lake, and turned to stare at the distant cottage. ‘You think those Muggles are really dead?’

‘Yes.’ Harry doubted they’d been Obliviated. No, the Muggles were most likely killed, simply because they happened to be near Harry. He knew he shouldn’t feel responsible for these deaths, but he couldn’t help adding them to the tally that weighed around his heart, constricting it like a chain.

‘This is what Muggles must feel like, right?’ Malfoy’s quavering voice said. ‘Magicless and facing a wizard. No hope of fighting back. Standing no fucking chance.’ Malfoy shook more than before, hands on his face, and Harry, unsure what to do, grabbed his shoulder to still him. Unthinkingly, he touched the left shoulder and Malfoy flinched. The pain brought him out of whatever was going inside his mind, and he took deep breaths.

‘Sorry. I forgot that’s the Splinched shoulder.’

‘It’s fine. We have bigger problems.’

Both he and Malfoy were soaked to the bone, and dusk was falling. How on earth were they going to walk in soaked jeans or sleep in these clothes? The plastic bag with their old clothing was similarly wet.

They had no choice. They kept walking.

‘Do you think they’ll come back?’

‘Dolohov is smart,’ Malfoy said. ‘He figured out we stayed in the area. He’ll be back.’

~*~

Two hours later, Harry felt the most miserable he’d ever been in his life. In fact, he realised that every time in his life he thought he’d reached that point, he’d been wrong. _This_ was true misery: walking in the dark along what the map said was Fowley River, sharp winds tearing through his wet clothing, the jeans chaffing him something awful. He shivered and starved and tolerated a very morose Malfoy, his pointed face in a permanent scowl, as if Harry was to blame for their shared misery.

Perhaps he regretted not giving Harry up. But Harry couldn’t worry about Malfoy’s regrets now. He could worry about finding shelter, or about spending another night without food, or about catching pneumonia.

The land changed. They entered a forest full of gurgling streams and birds calling in the night. The underbrush caught at his feet making him stumble. Malfoy started sneezing. Hunger made Harry dizzy, which was possibly why he felt that the trees reached out to touch him, to caress his cheek. He heard whispers coming through the woods, soft talk, laughter, even a snippet of a song. He looked at Malfoy, who’d turned towards the sound.

‘Did you hear…?’ Malfoy asked. His eyes glistened in the night.

Harry’s neck prickled. There was something in these woods that felt dangerous; perhaps even more dangerous than the Death Eaters. He grabbed Malfoy’s arm and pulled him away. ‘We’d best find a place to kip.’

They stumbled around a little, delving deep into the woods. The foliage hid the stars and they’d left the river behind them. Harry wasn’t sure they were even going south. They could be walking in circles, haunted by almost-heard sounds and almost-there touches.

And then a smell — and what a smell it was! An aroma of cinnamon and ginger and cumin drifted towards them and no power on earth could stop Harry from heading in that direction. A light flickered in the distance, a dark shape loomed, which became a stone cottage: two stories and a loft and a small herb garden circling the property.

A cup of milk and honey stood on a post on the fence. Harry drooled, looking at it.

‘That’s not for us.’ Malfoy pulled him away.

They decided on their story first: hiking trip, lost their packs and their way, no phones (Harry had to repeat the word). They knocked.

A woman opened the door.

‘Good evening,’ Malfoy said, who took it upon himself to be the spokesperson after the resounding success they had in Camelford. ‘We’re sorry to trouble you, but we’re looking for somewhere to stay and perhaps some dinner. We were hiking and lost our way and we only have two — what was it, Potter? — we have two  _quid,_ but I can also offer you one gal—one of these gold coins. It’s pure gold. For food. And a roof tonight.’

The lady was tall, her face sour, late fifties probably. She took the gold coin and rolled it in her palm. She handed it back. ‘Not my house. Got to go ask Esther.’ She slammed the door in their face.

They waited patiently for her to return, a wait made worse by the overpowering smell of the spices that had them both salivate. Harry turned the corner and peeked through a window to see a small, tidy kitchen with the remnants of a meal on the red checkered tablecloth, and a vast oven. He returned to the door just as it opened and the lady stood back. ‘Esther says it’s ok. She won’t take your money. Leave your shoes by the door.’

They stepped into a narrow hallway and took their muddy shoes off as the door shut behind them. The woman ushered them through a door on the right and into a warm living room, lit only by a table lamp and a roaring fire. Embroidered cushions and a thick, handmade throw covered the burgundy sofas. Sitting by the fire, an elderly woman put down her knitting. ‘Come here so I can see you, lads.’

‘This is Esther,’ the first woman explained. ‘Dear me, you’re soaked,’ she said, taking their jackets.

‘Dawn, would you be so kind as to bring some of Ben’s old clothes for the boys?’ Dawn left and the older woman, Esther, turned to them. ‘I think we should get you warm and dry first, and then we can talk.’

They took turns in the bathroom on the first floor, changing into tracksuit bottoms and faded band T-shirts. Malfoy went first and took his bloody time. Eventually, he left the bathroom, leaving it steamy and smelling of Imperial Leather soap, his wet clothing inside the plastic bag with their old garments. Harry peeled his jeans off of him with relief and showered quickly. Wrapping himself in a towel, he relished the feeling of dry skin, and allowed himself one moment (just the one): to hope. To believe that things were looking up for them.

Hope that perhaps he and Malfoy would make it out of this alive.

Leaving the bathroom and walking down the stairs to the ground floor, he met Dawn, who asked for their clothes. ‘I’ll put them in the wash. Or burn them,’ she said, looking at Malfoy’s bloody robes.

‘Thank you,’ Harry told her. ‘For everything.’

She shrugged.

In the living room, Malfoy sat on a stool next to Esther in a Joy Division tee and was talking animatedly with her, his previous distress forgotten. He was so odd, this man. So full of hate and bigotry, and yet here he was, smiling at an old woman’s wrinkled face. Harry knew when Malfoy was being deliberately charming, and this here wasn’t him currying favour. His smiles were genuine, and Harry wondered how he came to know so much about Malfoy.

‘ … Cadgwith,’ he was saying now.

‘And you’re walking there?’ Esther asked.

‘We have no choice. We have an appointment there,’ Harry said. He sank in the couch by the fire and, unable to stop himself, sighed in pleasure at the warmth. Malfoy darted a look at him.

‘What a shame,’ Esther exclaimed, clasping her hands. ‘You missed Ben, my grandson. He lives in Falmouth, only a short drive from Cadgwith, and could have given you a lift.’

 _Typical_ , Harry thought. As if they could catch a lucky break.

‘He always comes up for lunch on a Sunday,’ she explained. ‘Come rain or shine, Ben’s always here at noon, bless him. You know,’ she said slowly, ‘you’re welcome to stay here until next week when he returns.’

‘That’s — that’s too long to wait,’ Harry said. He exchanged a look with Malfoy, who looked eager and willing. Of course. Malfoy wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere. He had nowhere to be, except away from the people who hunted them.

‘Won’t it take us several days to walk there anyway?’ Malfoy insisted.

It would, but Harry felt staying put would make him feel like he was twiddling his thumbs, while the rest of his world fought a war. However, the thought of a week of being left to the mercy of the elements and flirting with starvation wasn’t attractive at all. He sighed. ‘Let’s sleep on it. Thank you for the hospitality,’ he said to Esther. ‘It’s very kind of you.’

‘That’s quite alright,’ she smiled. She turned down Malfoy’s offer of a handful of galleons. ‘I have no need for gold. I’d be grateful if you helped Dawn with some chores, though. Also, do you boys know anything about plumbing?’

They both shook their heads.

‘Well, you’ll learn.’

Dawn entered with two trays and settled them on the coffee table.

‘You boys of age?’ she asked, and Malfoy replied, ‘Yes.’

‘I’ll bring you some ale then.’

‘Dawn, the boys might be staying with us this week.’

‘Esther…’ Dawn’s voice was low, but Esther paid no attention to the warning in her tone and picked up her knitting.

‘It’s good to have people round again. Now, dig in!’

Harry knew he wasn’t exactly being objective, but, in a list of the best meals in his life, this one flew straight to the top. The lamb stew was tender and aromatic and was served with thick slices of brown bread. Dawn returned with a half pint of ale for each of them, strong and bitter, and lingered by the door, watching them.

‘Unusual spices,’ Malfoy commented. ‘Delicious, though.’

‘It’s a Sephardic recipe,’ Esther said, pleased. ‘Dawn is kind enough to cook it for me.’

Unlike Dawn’s Cornish brogue, Esther’s accent was hard to place. But before Harry had a chance to inquire, Esther spoke again.

‘You look dead on your feet. Go rest and we’ll talk tomorrow. The loft, Dawn, please,’ Esther said and her housekeeper beckoned to them. ‘Come with me.’

The loft had been converted into two rooms. The one they entered was a small bedroom, with exposed beams, a wooden chest of drawers, and a window behind the bed, which Dawn was pointing at now.

The _one_ double bed.

‘Excuse me?’ Malfoy said. ‘One bed?’

‘You should be grateful you’re getting a bed at all,’ she said and shut the door behind her.

Malfoy remained rooted to the spot, staring at the bed with horror, as if sharing sleeping quarters with Harry was the worst thing he could imagine, but Harry, too exhausted to care about Malfoy’s pureblood sensibilities, climbed under the faded green cover and fell asleep instantly.


	3. The Cottage Part I

A bird cawed outside the window in the morning. Harry pulled the cover over his eyes, trying to prolong the lovely dream he’d had, but it dissipated like mist. Pleasant dreams rarely visited him these days and he wished it had lingered. Warmth enveloped him and his stomach rumbled with normal morning hunger rather than that gnawing, empty feeling he’d got used to in the last few months. The sheets smelled stale, but not unpleasantly so. Clean, but unused. He registered another pleasant scent near him, a combination of musk, hair, soap. He turned his head. Malfoy was still asleep.

He’d forgotten in those blissful, bleary-eyed moments where he was and who he was with. He’d forgotten about this person and their uneasy, tentative truce. Malfoy looked serene; no trace of a sneer marking his fair face. Harry felt a thrill, examining him undetected, as if he was doing something illicit. But as the milky sunlight spread in the room like a whisper, he looked his fill: at the pointy angles of Malfoy’s jaw, the sharp cheekbones, the straight nose, the luminous hair fanning on the pillow; a face like a dagger softened by the curve of full lips and soft pale lashes.

Harry knew he liked boys as much as girls. He’d confessed to Ron and Hermione three years ago that he fancied both Cedric _and_ Cho, and Ron had laughed, ‘Man, and people say being bisexual means more dates? You’re fucked _twice_.’ Hermione had glared at Ron and reiterated how supportive they were, but Harry had laughed, relieved. Joking about it made the whole thing feel _natural_ and that was exactly what he’d wanted.

So, the stirring inside him when he looked at Malfoy’s lips didn’t surprise him, and he didn’t make a big deal out of it. He knew that as soon as Malfoy woke up and wore his habitual disdain, Harry would go back to disliking him.

 _Or maybe not_ , a voice said, and his brain supplied him with unhelpful images of Malfoy wet in the lake, upset, desperate. The brief glimpses of vulnerability shoved hastily under a mask of indifference. The way he bit his bottom lip when hesitating, his enthusiastic ramblings about King Arthur, his eager pretense at being royalty. Images that showed a side of Malfoy other than that of the cold, impenetrable, pureblood tosser. But he shook his head to dispel these memories and got out of bed.

A Malfoy was always a Malfoy.

Harry had finished his eggs by the time Malfoy sauntered down the stairs, yawning, his hair mussed.

‘You’re late, sleeping beauty.’ Esther sat by the kitchen window with a cup of tea. It was drizzling again and a gust of wind rattled the glass, but an Aga warmed the room and the smell of fried eggs, mushrooms, and tomatoes filled the air.

Malfoy beamed at her before he glowered at Harry. ‘I apologise. Potter here didn’t see fit to wake me up, apparently.’

‘Do you call each other by your surname?’ Dawn asked, slicing peppers by the sink. ‘I assumed you were friends.’

‘Um…’

‘Ehm…’

They looked at each other, aware that their story wouldn’t hold up to the mildest of probing. Malfoy had also tried to talk about the palace last night, but Harry had kicked his leg under the coffee table to shut him up. They’d told enough lies as it were, and Dawn was sharp.

‘I was simply annoyed with — _Harry_ here.’ Malfoy swallowed, as if it pained him to use Harry’s given name.

‘Next time I’ll be sure to wake you up, _Draco._ ’ Harry matched Malfoy’s hostility with some of his own.

‘Thank you, _Harry,_ ’ Malfoy replied, tight lipped.

‘You’re welcome, _Draco_.’

‘I appr—’

‘We saved you some breakfast, Draco.’ Esther interrupted their effort to have the last word. Malfoy took the mug that Dawn offered and poured some tea before sitting opposite Harry.

‘Thank you, Dawn. It looks lovely.’

‘You need fattening up, both of you,’ Dawn said. ‘You’re too skinny, you are.’

‘We don’t normally have a fry up in the mornings,’ Esther explained. ‘But you look like you haven’t had a proper meal in a while.’

Harry had spent most of the past months surviving on mushrooms, but what was Malfoy’ excuse? He should've had access to three square meals a day, but he looked as thin as Harry. Perhaps having Snape as Headmaster had ruined the quality of cooking and that’s why Malfoy hated being in school. He wouldn't put it past him to call school _horrendous,_ just because he didn’t enjoy his roast.

‘You don’t eat mushrooms?’ Malfoy asked now with a nod at Harry’s plate.

Harry would be happy to never  _ever_  lay eyes on another mushroom again. ‘D’you want them?’

Malfoy had already gobbled his own. He bit his bottom lip, glanced at Harry’s plate, then at Harry. ‘It’s fine. You should eat them.’

‘It’s alright. Here,’ Harry scraped them onto Malfoy’s plate. ‘I’m full anyway.’

‘Thank you.’ Malfoy paused, pushed the mushrooms around with his fork, and added, ‘Harry.’  

This time Harry’s name came out of Malfoy’s lips like an exhale, soft and curious, and Harry almost felt goosebumps. ‘You’re welcome. Draco.’

Draco offered him a smile, one of the genuine ones, and tucked in.

After breakfast, while Harry was washing the dishes and Draco was drying them, Esther put down her third cup of tea. ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do?’ she asked Harry.

He tried to imagine setting off for a day’s hard walk now, in the wind and drizzle, and his whole body protested. He wanted to keep going, he truly did. These last months were all about keeping going, all about pushing himself forward again and again, but right now the idea of leaving behind this wonderful cottage and Esther’s generous offer, just for the sake of arriving at Tinworth a day or two early… It wasn’t worth it.

‘We’ll stay if we can get a lift with your grandson.’ He glanced at Draco to check he agreed, and Draco exhaled and nodded. Harry turned to the two ladies. ‘Thank you. We’ll be very happy to help you with any chores while we’re here.’

‘Wonderful! I’ll call Ben right now,’ Esther said. She picked up a gnarled cane lying against the wall and leaned on it to stand up. Draco rushed to help her, but she waved him away. ‘Thank you, my dear. I can manage.’ She shuffled towards the door and paused with one hand on the door handle. ‘You can use our telephone to call your parents and let them know you’re OK. They might be worried.’

Harry stood still, unsure how to respond, knowing it’d be suspicious if they declined, but Draco spoke first, his voice flat.

‘We have no parents.’

Esther exchanged a glance with Dawn. ‘Orphans. I wondered.’ She left the kitchen and Harry blinked twice before he carried on with the washing up. Beside him, unmoving, Draco gazed out of the window, the kitchen towel still in his hands.

Half an hour later, freshly showered, Harry rummaged in the chest of drawers in the loft bedroom for a jumper. Dawn had informed them that she’d put any clothes she thought might fit them in the drawers for their use while at the cottage. The selection consisted of some thick woolly jumpers, half a dozen 80s band T-shirts, and a few shirts in neutral colours. He unearthed his Oxfam jumper, laundered and smelling of lavender, and shut the drawer when his scar started pulsing.

Blind with increasing pain, he took a step back and another, and his legs knocked on the bed just as Voldemort’s rage sucked him in.

The Malfoy drawing room: tidy and clean, the chandelier fixed and hanging from the ceiling. In the centre of the room, Voldemort seethed with rage, and his wand wrought pain, casting a Crucio unlike any before. Harry saw the Elder Wand, which he’d last seen in Dumbledore’s hands, cradled by Voldemort’s spidery fingers, and he felt — _oh, how he felt it, throbbing in his veins_ — the immense power of the wand, almost humming as it dealt out punishment to the incompetents. Rookwood and Dolohov, their faces a grimace of agony, suffered their Lord’s displeasure until Voldemort lowered the wand, still furious.

‘Two teenage boys and you can’t seem to track either one of them down! The Malfoy boy especially! A spoiled, spoon-fed, coddled brat!’ He spat the words, each one a lash.

‘We used hounds, my Lord. Goyle’s hounds, but they lost the scent of the boy in the lake,’ Rookwood pleaded.  A trickle of blood smeared the corner of his mouth and he wiped it off with his sleeve.

‘I don’t _care_ for your excuses,’ Voldemort hissed. He paced the drawing room, thinking.  ‘Potter is of course an _expert_ at evading capture…’

‘We used the Ichnilato Spell on Potter. But it took us to a Muggle road and…’

‘And?’

‘And then we lost the connection. He could be anywhere by now. He could’ve Disapparated, or taken one of them Muggle carts.’

Voldemort’s hands tightened on his wand, his memory unbidden telling him that it is _cars, not carts_. He loathed that he knew the correct word; he resented any reminder of his upbringing, which his brain couldn’t resist dishing out now and again. He glanced at the Elder Wand and his new source of disquietness distracted him: the object of his desire proved _lesser_ than he’d been led to believe, and Ollivander, who could advise him, had been taken.

 _Potter_. Everything circled back to Potter. He’d saved the wandmaker, perhaps with inside help. Voldemort loathed traitors more than anything, and if he had to make an example of the Malfoy brat, then he would. He addressed the kneeling men. ‘The Ichnilato spell is much more reliable. Go back to where you tracked Potter. Malfoy won’t be far. Use any means necessary to see where they might have gone to. Burn the whole county down if you must. _I want these two found_.’

The men scurried out of the room in a hurry, making their useless promises, and Nagini slithered in and curled at his feet, sensing his agitation. Voldemort reached down to her and stroked her head. ‘Potter’s mine, Nagini, but you can have Malfoy.’ The snake flicked its tongue.

‘Harry? Did you see him again?’ A voice rang.

Harry opened his eyes and looked at the slanting ceiling above him. He scratched at the cotton duvet, but struggled to find something strong enough to pull him out of his head. His eyes fluttered and once more he fell into the dark—

‘Harry?’ Urgent, clipped vowels, insistent at his ears. A cool hand shook his shoulder, hot breath played on his cheek, and the smell of lavender tickled his nose. Without thinking, Harry raised his head and pressed his face at the source of the lavender smell, inhaling deeply. Dawn’s fabric softener brought him slowly back to himself, and he opened his eyes to see he had his nose buried in Draco’s shoulder.

He let go immediately and Draco stepped back, his face pink.

‘Um, sorry, I didn’t mean—’

Draco swallowed. His hands twitched a little and he put them in his pockets. ‘It’s fine. Did you see him? Did you see my parents?’ He circled the bed and sat on the other side.

‘Him. He punished Rookwood and Dolohov for not finding us yet. He’s sent them back to the petrol station.’ Harry paused, trying to make sense of what he’d seen. ‘He thinks you helped me free the prisoners and escape.’

Draco snorted. He traced patterns on the duvet as he spoke. ‘He’s always surprised when you escape him. You’d think that after half a dozen times he’d learn not to underestimate you.’

Harry barely held back a gasp. Draco kept looking at the duvet and acted as if he hadn’t said anything shocking. Harry had no idea how to respond. He stared at Draco’s bent head, the hair falling in his eyes. ‘I saw _you_ once.’ He didn’t know what made him say it, and regretted it when Draco lifted his head, looking frightened.

‘In those visions?’

Harry nodded. ‘He asked you to Crucio Rowle.’

The light from the window behind the bed bathed Draco in muted grey tones, softening the angles of his face. His eyes didn’t meet Harry’s and he went back to staring at the bed cover. ‘Not one of my finer moments,’ he said, his voice hoarse.

Harry remembered Voldemort’s threats. ‘You had no choice.’

‘No,’ Draco murmured, ‘I did. I could have said no.’

 

They spent the day indoors. The rain fell harder by noon, justifying Harry’s decision to stay. He liked the cottage and the women in it more the longer he stayed there. Dawn — tall, grey hair in a bun, brisk — worked with a frightening expediency and hummed while doing it. Her curt manners and her reluctance at having them around didn’t stop her from serving them lunch (tomato and basil soup) in bowls so large that even Hagrid would have a job emptying them. Esther, on the other hand, was a fragile, quiescent thing; a shiny rock around whom the household’s activity flowed and ebbed. Petite, with a pure white bob, and clever brown eyes, she passed her time knitting or watching Antiques Roadshow or taking care of the innumerable potted plants crammed in every nook and corner, watering and whispering at them.

Harry welcomed the chores, a blissful distraction from what he already thought of as ‘his real life’, and seeing Malfoy fumbling about the Muggle home had him rolling. He shouldn’t have been so amused, not with Dawn narrowing her eyes at Draco’s ignorance of what the fridge was, or his tickling the picture frames to make the people move, and frowning when they didn’t. Draco’s accent might have explained why he didn’t know what a dustpan was for, but it didn’t account for the fact that he stared at the toaster’s plug for a good half a minute, or why he jumped when Harry switched the vacuum cleaner on; a jump that had Esther burst in delighted laughter as she passed them in the hallway, a tiny mint plant in the hand that didn’t clasp the cane.

‘Just like a kitten,’ she said fondly to Draco, who still glared sideways at the vacuum cleaner. ‘We had cats in the past. Ezra, my late husband, loved them. They were scared of the vacuum, too.’ She settled the mint plant by the window, still shaking her head with laughter.

‘That’s why they had the milk outside,’ Harry mused later, hoovering the carpet on the first floor.

Draco scoffed. ‘You’re so entirely ignorant of basic wizarding customs.’ He’d abandoned his duster on the floor in order to examine a picture of Esther in her youth, wearing a shockingly short skirt, next to a man who Uncle Vernon would describe as a “dandy”.

Truce or no truce, Draco rubbing his pureblood superiority on Harry grated him. ‘What does that even have to do with the Muggles?’

‘It appears some Muggles are aware of what’s around them, even if they can’t explain it. I bet it’s Dawn. Dawn is Cornish. She knows.’

Harry rolled his eyes. ‘Crystal clear answer, as always.’

‘I wonder how you made it through school,’ Draco continued, ignoring him. He put down the picture frame and picked up a candlestick. ‘Not that your grades were anything to write home about, but even so.’

It felt nostalgic, they way they traded anemic insults as if a schoolboy rivalry was all they had to worry about. ‘I guess I had the help of someone whose grades were better than yours.’

‘Cheating then. As I suspected.’ Draco’s voice had no sting, though, and Harry would swear he was teasing.

He turned off the vacuum and decided to ask him about what had been on his mind since yesterday: Hogwarts. ‘Why did you say school was horrendous? Is Snape so bad?’ Harry tried to suppress the hatred that bubbled at the memory of Dumbledore’s murderer. ‘And no cryptic statements. Fucking tell me.’

‘Snape? No, on the contrary. Sometimes, I wonder—’

‘What?’ The ladies were downstairs and couldn’t possibly hear them, but they still leaned close and kept their voices low.

‘Nevermind. The problem at school is the Carrows,’ Draco started. ‘Siblings. Some of the worst Death Eaters in the bunch. Cruel, you know? Like Macnair, but not as dumb as he is. Amycus teaches Dark Arts…’

They both settled on the carpet, Draco with his back to the wall. As Draco revealed more and more of what happened in Hogwarts, Harry felt his face heating up. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms, trying hard to suppress the urge to scream. He knew it’d be different this year, but he hadn’t realised _how_ different.

‘… and the worst thing is that Greg and Vince are all over it. Have you any idea how young the first years look?’ Draco’s hands shook and he clasped them tight. ‘But — well, i’m lucky. I ask to be excused from lessons and they allow it since I’m also a—’ He blinked. He’d been staring at the floor during the entire narration, seemingly unaware of what his face was doing: so eloquent for a change, disgust and guilt and regret mapped clearly over his brow and the tilt of his mouth.

Silence followed his words, murky and heavy, full of dark moving things. Harry’s blood boiled. The lack of a wand seemed fortuitous, because otherwise he’d Apparate to school straight away, Horcruxes be damned.

Draco added, ‘I spent most of the year either by the lake, or when it got too cold, in a secret room I’d discovered last year. I missed a lot of dinners that way, not that anyone cared. No one even noticed, except Pansy.’

Draco’s admission tugged at Harry’s gut. He said, just to say something, ‘Well, she’s your girlfriend.’

Draco snorted at his words and lifted his head. ‘ _Girlfriend_ … Merlin, you _are_ unobservant.’

The tension broke. Harry thrust the vacuum’s nozzle towards him and laughed when Draco scrambled out of the way with a yelp. ‘At least I’m not afraid of the hoover.’

‘It’s evil,’ Draco hissed and ran down the stairs to where Esther was calling him.

Alone, Harry clutched the vacuum tightly and tried to control his breathing. Snape and Voldemort had given two of his worst Death Eaters free reign to take these kids’ minds and twist them. They allowed the Carrows to _hurt_ students. Nausea filled him at Draco’s description of the punishments the Carrows dealt, at the way Draco shook when he mentioned the lashes and stinging hexes. ‘The Gryffindors bear the most of it,’ he’d said. ‘Ravenclaws are smart enough to keep their mouth shut and Hufflepuffs keep their head down. It’s the Gryffindors who make the most trouble. Well, not quite: it’s that Army group of yours.’

Harry’s friends made trouble: Neville and Ginny and Seamus, Lavender and Parvati and Colin, Ernie and Terry and Cho; they tried to make a difference, attempted to stand up to the torture, and Harry felt so _proud_ of them and also so afraid of what might happen to them. His hatred of Voldemort consumed him; everything circled back to _him._ Defeating him was the only thing that mattered, even if the thought of what it would cost made Harry ache.

Harry hoovered absent-mindedly, going over the same spot, and wondered how it must feel when your friends don’t notice you missing meals. He tried to imagine having no one by his side — even now, Dumbledore’s Army stood by him in their own way — and he couldn’t picture a more devastating loneliness.

 

They spent the rest of the day tinkering around the house, helping Dawn with dinner (Harry) and helping untangle Esther’s yarn (Draco), and, finally, after a lovely meal of fish with peppers and rice (Harry now suspected why Esther’s grandson showed up every Sunday without fail for Dawn’s cooking), they gathered in the living room to watch TV.

As difficult as it was to hide Malfoy’s inexperience with Muggle life from their two hosts, it was nigh impossible when they were all in the same room. He wasn’t being subtle about it either.

‘What’s this?’ He waved the remote he’d grabbed from the coffee table, probably thinking it was some kind of wand. The TV switched channels and he stared in awe and some trepidation.

‘You’ll break it.’ Harry snatched the remote.

‘Can you stop taking things from my hands?’

‘Shut up. See.’ Harry pressed a button and the local ITV News came on. ‘This is the news. And here,’ he pressed more buttons, ‘is a soap opera and here another soap opera. We can choose which one to watch.’

‘What’s a soap opera?’ Draco asked.

Harry noticed the two ladies watching their exchange. ‘He doesn’t have a TV,’ he explained. ‘His family was — religious. A cult, actually.’

‘Ah, that explains a lot,’ murmured Dawn to her stitching.

Draco glanced at Harry, who gave him a look to remind him to ‘shut up’. He found he very much enjoyed having all these opportunities to tell Draco to shut up on account of “not being discovered.”

Esther requested Eastenders and Harry switched the channel and they watched; Malfoy in utter thrall. After a few minutes, he leaned towards Harry and whispered, ‘Is this real?’

‘What do you mean?’

Malfoy’s eyes widened as the couple on the screen started necking pretty heavily. ‘Are these real people going about their business and we can see what they’re doing? Is it the same way you can see the Dark Lord’s mind?’

Harry briefly entertained the idea of Voldemort TV, and it might have been funny if his visions didn’t disturb him so much. ‘No,’ he said quietly. He grabbed a cushion with three embroidered poppies and held it to his chest. ‘I’m much more close to — to him. I can't explain it well. I just feel what he's feeling when he’s particularly angry — or happy. These people are just actors. It’s all made up.’

He doubted the wisdom of confessing one of his most dearly held secrets to Draco Malfoy, but Draco nodded once, grim, and turned to the screen.

The evening wore on, in an unhurried, relaxed manner that Harry would love to get used to. Esther knit, Dawn stitched, Draco watched a murder mystery, his legs covered by the throw, and Harry glanced at the cozy room, half-listening to Draco’s and Dawn’s conversation of who the murderer might be. The firelight bounced off the picture frames on the sideboard and Harry got up to take a look. In the middle, Esther beamed as a happy bride, her arm linked to that of a grinning young man. Photos of her children at different ages surrounded the wedding photo, some in black and white, but most in colour. In one, four children in their school uniforms smiled at the camera: two girls and two boys.

He picked up the frame and turned to Esther, but Dawn’s eyes met his and she shook her head in warning before he asked the question. Her eyes bore on him until Harry put the frame back and retreated. He flopped next to Draco. Ads interrupted the programme and Draco’s attention left the screen and snagged on something else. ‘What’s this, Esther?’

Esther’s sleeve had risen when she reached for the yarn, showing a tattoo. Harry froze when he saw it. He looked at Esther’s face. Of course. Fifty-odd years ago she’d be in her early twenties.

‘I’m a survivor from the camps,’ she said, confirming his guess. ‘Auschwitz.’

‘What’s Auschwitz?’

The two ladies stared at Malfoy with surprise. The cult excuse meant they could probably get away with him not knowing what a soap opera was or how to turn on the lights (Harry had to show him), but ignorance about something huge like World War II raised suspicions. He couldn’t even suggest that Draco had been knocked in the head since he’d been lucid all day. He wished he’d mentioned it last night. It’d save them a lot of bother, and Draco wouldn’t have to act too hard.

‘Draco never paid any attention to history. Terrible student,’ Harry said quickly. He laughed. Ha. Ha.

Dawn did not look amused.

‘I mean, he knows about the maniac who killed all those people sixty years ago…’

‘Grindel—?’

‘ _Hitler_ ,’ he threw a significant glance to Malfoy and he finally shut up. ‘Hitler. Who started the second World War and killed millions of Jews, among other people… ’

Draco managed not to blurt out anything else incriminating, but it was too late; the ladies’ expressions varied from considering (Esther) to suspicious (Dawn).

Esther put down her needles. ‘I would really appreciate you telling us the truth now, boys. I know you don’t mean no harm to us, but I wish to know the truth of what brought you to our doorstep at the state you were.’

Malfoy sighed and looked at Harry, who tried for an approximation of the truth; they owed it to them, even if it meant being kicked out.

‘The truth is,’ Harry started, ‘we’re in a bad situation with a very bad man. We’re trying to get away from him. To find friends. In Falmouth.’

‘Cadgwith,’ Draco amended.

‘How bad is this situation?’

Draco said, ‘The worst.’

‘Is it the mob?’

Harry shook his head.

‘Can whoever it is find you here?’ Dawn asked, half-rising.

Only now did Harry realise the danger they were putting these women in. He glanced at Draco, who seemed to be thinking of the same thing. ‘We should leave,’ Harry said. ‘We should never have stayed here,’ he whispered to Draco.

‘We’ll go first thing in the morning,’ Draco agreed. ‘Or now, if that’s what you wish. You’ve been more than—’

‘No.’

Esther looked stern. Dawn went to check the window latches.

In the silence that echoed in the warm, dimly lit room and while the television flickered in one corner, Esther’s eyes grew serious. ‘I survived a very bad situation with very bad men. My people survived, some by luck, and some by the kindness of others. We do not forget. I would never forgive myself if I didn’t extend the same help to someone who needed it.’ She paused, her eyes lingering over Draco. ‘I don’t think you’re telling me the whole truth. But I want you to be safe. I trust my instincts and I like you both. Now,’ Esther picked up her knitting, while Dawn left to check the back door. ‘You asked me about this number, Draco. Let me tell you history the way I lived it.’

Esther was twenty-two when she was sent to the death camps. She’d been dragged from her home in north Greece, forced to board a train with thousands of others and taken to the cold north. She was strong and knew how to sew well, and perhaps those facts saved her. Perhaps it was simply luck. ‘Death rolls dice with people’s lives,’ she said. Her brothers, her father, and her fiancé died. ‘The males of my family never live long.’ Halfway through the story, describing the gas chambers and the starvation, tears glistened in her eyes.

‘You don’t have to continue,’ Malfoy said. His face had gone paler than normal.

‘It’s been some time since I last talked about it. Years actually,’ she said. ‘People don’t want to ask. They think it distresses me. It does, but not in the way they think. I say it’s important for people to know.’

‘Esther watches the Schindler’s List at least once every month,’ Dawn added, who’d returned.

‘My daughters think I’m crazy. But I want to remember. I want to remember how cruel people can be. And how, occasionally, you can find compassion in the most surprising of places.’ She looked at them both and added, ‘Sometimes it takes one person to make a difference.’

No one spoke for a moment.

Esther beckoned at Dawn to help her stand up. ‘It’s late tonight. But one of these days we’ll watch the film. So Draco can see what happened.’

Harry and Draco trudged up the stairs to their room, silent and brooding. The rain had stopped, allowing the moon to emerge behind the clouds and flood the attic with silvery ghost light. They changed into tracksuit bottoms and T-shirts and climbed under the duvet.

‘Is it true? Did the Nazi,’ Draco pronounced the word carefully, ‘kill all those people and hold her prisoner?’

‘All true.’

‘Just because she’s Jewish?’

‘Yep. Nazis believed that North Europeans were superior to everyone else. They hated Jews, the Slavs, the Romani … They decided some people were subhuman, that’s how they called them, and set out to exterminate them.’

‘Why would anyone in their right mind believe people are inferior just because they are a different race? It doesn’t make any sense at all.’

‘No, it doesn’t. But then some people believe they’re better than others on account of, I don’t know, the magic their ancestors had in their blood.’

Malfoy sat up. Moonlight illuminated his troubled face. ‘That’s different,’ he protested, unwilling to admit it, but years of indoctrination were hard to shake off. ‘Magic is different — it’s an innate quality, not simply a feature like your hair colour; it sets you above Muggles—’

‘So you’re better than Esther.’

‘In terms of doing magic, I am. I have this extra skill that she can never acquire.’

‘And for that reason you deserve to live, and she and Dawn deserve to die.’

Draco started. ‘I never said that. No, they don’t deserve to—’

‘Don’t the Death Eaters kill Muggles for sport? Isn’t dominance over Muggles the whole fucking point?’

Harry had sat up, too. His attention was wholly arrested by the turmoil in Malfoy’s face, the emotions that ran under his skin, thoughts fighting with each other. What must it feel, he wondered, having everything you believe in crash down around your ears?

Draco took a deep, rattling breath. ‘The Dark Lord is cruel. Some of his followers, too, I suppose. But it’s not all about that. For most, pureblood culture is about preserving wizarding customs, our history and _heritage_ —’

‘Death Eaters believe in keeping wizarding culture pure?’

‘Exactly,’ Draco said. ‘Uncontaminated.’

 _Uncontaminated_. Harry clenched his fists. Draco’s terminology wasn’t the worst thing; no, the worst was that he looked as if he’d said something sane. ‘Remember the Quidditch World Cup shenanigans? How did that _preserve pureblood heritage_?’

The memory of the Muggles, spellbound and suspended on air, hovered briefly between them. Draco struggled to find words. ‘I— That was—’

He couldn’t continue. He breathed heavily, and Harry, spurned by god knows what implacability, pricked him more. He was like a dog with a bone.

‘That was what? You hate Hermione just because she’s Muggleborn. You called her slurs. She kicks your arse in magic — yet now you’re telling me that Muggleborns like her _contaminate_ your precious, inbred culture. You look down your snotty nose at everyone with a different ancestry to yours. That’s what the Nazis did: separate people into worthy and unworthy. You just watch the film. See yourself. How you truly are.’

Harry fell back on his pillows, ignoring the shuddering breaths next to him. A moment later, the side of the bed dipped. Soft footsteps and a creak at the door told him that Draco had left the room. Harry wanted to go after him, he wasn’t sure why, but experience told him he should perhaps leave him well alone. He knew Draco simply parroted his parents’ beliefs, and he could see the effort he’d been making to readjust his thinking, but still, hearing those arguments made Harry’s temper — always a hard beast to tame — rise to the surface.

In the end, he fell asleep before Draco returned. 

~*~

 

In the morning, breakfast was a silent affair. Esther had stayed in bed, and Draco and Harry made their own breakfast, under the watchful eye of Dawn, who darned socks by the window. Draco looked like he hadn’t slept much, but neither of them made any reference to last night’s conversation. Harry’s thoughts now revolved around the risk these two women were taking by letting them stay. He itched to talk to Draco about it, and Dawn gave him the opportunity when she sent them to the forest to gather wood.

‘Mind you stay on the path.’ She saw them to the back door and gave them a rusty pail for the wood.

Draco nodded as if a hunch had been confirmed. ‘It isn’t a friendly forest, is it?’

Dawn looked at him with appreciation. ‘No, it isn’t. Not to you, I don’t think.’

The lucid morning sun rays didn’t penetrate the dense wood. Only here and there, shafts of light speared through the foliage down to the blooming bugle and bluebells. Even though by now Harry was desensitised to the beauty of nature, having spent months camping in the countryside, he couldn’t deny it: the forest around Golitha Falls was exceedingly beautiful. Verdant, with clear, rushing streams, mossy stones and tree trunks, and an abundance of herbs and flowers. Moths fluttered among the undergrowth and birdsong filled the air. If it wasn’t for the prickling of his neck, he’d view it as a lovely place. As it was, danger lurked under the beauty.

He and Draco picked fallen branches as they followed the path along an avenue of beech trees. ‘We need to talk,’ Harry told him.

‘About what?’ Draco tensed.

‘About keeping Dawn and Esther alive,’ Harry said. ‘What are the chances we are going to be followed here?’

Draco sighed. ‘It’s all I’ve been thinking about.’ They’d reached a pebbly bank and Draco veered off the path and sat on a rock, leaving the pail by his side.

Harry followed his example and sat close. ‘My first question is: can the hounds find us here?’

‘In theory, yes.’ To Harry’s sharp intake of breath, Draco added, ‘Not likely, though. I remember Greg’s father talking about them. They can pick up the trail from where we left the lake, but the more time passes, the more likely it is they’ll lose the scent. The moor is a windy place and the trail isn’t clear, I think that’s what slowed them down in the first place.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, they were following my scent, but I was wearing a bunch of clothes from different people. Even if the clothes had been washed, some scent of the human remained; also maybe people handled them at the shop. All the different human scents confuse the hounds.’ Draco threw a pebble in the gurgling stream. ‘If I’d been wearing my robes, they’d have managed to find me more easily, I think. Those second hand clothes helped save us.’

Harry picked a pebble and threw it in the stream. He watched the ripples disappear. ‘We should send the ladies a present. When all this is over.’

Draco gazed at the water. ‘When all this is over.’ He turned to stare at Harry, who looked back. Harry's heart pounded a little under Draco’s examining eyes. He’d stupidly sat way too close and now wished he hadn’t. Draco’s proximity made him uneasy.

‘You _do_ believe it, don’t you?’ Draco asked. ‘That this will be over?’

‘You don’t?’

Draco looked away. ‘I don’t dare to hope.’ He tossed another pebble in the water. _Plop_.

Harry said, ‘I have to believe it’ll be over. One way or another.’

‘It’s the _another_ that worries me.’ _Plop_.

‘So…’ Harry had figured it out but he wanted to hear Draco say it. ‘You don’t want _him_ to win?’

Draco picked up another pebble. He rolled it in his hand before he threw it in the stream. ‘I was never a big fan of hell.’

Harry reckoned in Draco-talk this meant “no, I don’t want Voldemort to win.” Perhaps it was a Slytherin thing to never give a clear answer.

Draco said, ‘When we reach Tinworth, we’ll change a couple of galleons into Muggle money and buy the Oxfam women something _spectacular_.’

Harry laughed. ‘Something worthy of royalty. Worthy of Fenston.’

Draco swatted his arm. ‘Stop using that name!’

Harry laughed again. The stream rushed, clear and cold, leaves drifting on the current. A bird chirped overhead, flapping its wings across the sky, and Draco leaned back on his hands and closed his eyes, tilting his face to a slanting ray of light.  

‘So the hounds won’t pick up the trail.’ Harry had to make sure.

Draco straightened. ‘The more they wait, the harder it will be. Goyle would have told them but, luckily, the Dark Lord likes to keep his followers ignorant of what the others are doing.’

‘What about the blood spell? The Ichnilato?’

Draco raised an eyebrow. ‘How do you know— oh, of course. Well, the spell is useless now. It’ll probably show you’re in the general area and not in, say, Scotland, but that’s about it. It won’t lead them to this place.’

‘Are _they_ safe then?’ Harry couldn’t hide the desperation in his voice. He couldn’t bear it if these kind women died because of him.

Draco nodded, his eyes grave. ‘I can’t think of anything else that might lead them here.’

‘I hate not having a wand,’ Harry said. ‘There’s loads of protective spells we could use at the cottage.’

Draco dug under his jumper, pulled his wand from the waistband of his jeans, and twirled it into his fingers. He favoured his right hand, keeping his left side stiff. ‘Shame. This was a good wand. I liked it.’

‘Do you carry it with you?’ Harry asked.

‘I can’t help it. I feel naked without it.’

The word ‘naked’ created a visual that Harry didn’t need right this minute. To cover his face heating up, he stretched his hand. ‘Can I?’

Draco cautiously handed him the wand and Harry looked at the deep crack that ran along the side. ‘I wonder if it can be fixed. My wand is also broken. Snapped in half.’

‘Really? What had you been using?’

‘A wand we took from a Snatcher. Whatever was handy. They were crap.’ Harry handed it back, pretending not to notice the relief in Draco's eyes when he clutched it again. He added, ‘I didn’t expect you to have a wand with a unicorn hair core.’

‘Ah yes, the evil Death Eater's wand should only have a core from a Grindylow scale or a Horned Serpent’s fang or— how do you know my wand has a unicorn hair core?’

‘You can see it.’

‘Where?’

They leaned close, their knees knocking together and their heads bumping. Draco held the wand between them, and Harry turned it gently to the side. ‘I was sure I saw it.’ They rolled the wand a few times and peered carefully, but no flash of white peeked from inside. ‘This is strange,’ Harry said. ‘I’d have sworn—’

‘Perhaps it was a trick of the light,’ Draco said, but Harry knew they both remembered how dark it’d been at the cliff. He didn’t know what to make of this, but shrugged. ‘Let’s go gather some wood from the unfriendly forest— ouch!’

‘Don’t say that, They’ll hear!’ Draco hissed. He sighed at Harry's uncompehending look. ‘Do you remember learning about faeries?’

‘Those tiny, winged creatures that Professor Flitwick used as lights at the Yule Ball?’

Draco pulled Harry close. ‘There are some creatures that we don’t learn about at school, but all wizards know about them. If you’d asked your friend Weasley, he’d tell you. There’s another type of faeries, older and more dangerous, usually found in the woods of Devon and Cornwall and Ireland.’ He lowered his voice so much that to be heard he had to talk in Harry’s ear. His breath tickled Harry and a shiver ran up Harry's spine. Draco's lips almost brushed his skin as he spoke. ‘Very few of them are left now. If they like you, they will shower riches upon you. They are fond of children, the elderly, and musicians. But they also delight in luring people away from their loved ones, or making them insane, just for their amusement. This is such a forest. That’s why Dawn leaves milk and honey on the fence. To appease them.’ He drew back and levelled a flat stare at Harry. ‘I know you’ll hate me for saying this but: this is part of pureblood culture. We all know these things.’

Harry looked at the mossy trees around them, the dense foliage, the blue shadows; he inhaled the strange scent that the wind carried and, for a second, he fancied he’d heard the soft laughter from the other night. He turned to Draco. ‘This is knowledge you can _share_. Educate people who are new in the wizarding world, instead of wanting to kill them.’

Draco stood and picked up the iron pail, wincing a little. ‘If we survive this, you can be in charge of the new Hogwarts curriculum.’

‘ _When_ we survive this,’ Harry amended as he stood. He sounded more optimistic than he actually felt, but he had to hold on to even the tiniest bit of hope.

Draco met his eyes. ‘When.’

They continued gathering wood, and Draco also picked some flowers, creating two bouquets. Harry didn’t know what to think of it: was this what Draco was like? Was it another unspoken pureblood custom, a “walk in the woods, gather flowers for ladies” sort of thing?

Draco wanted to tie the bouquets with a special kind of grass that took ages to find. ‘This isn’t right,’ he’d say, when Harry pointed at a patch of long wavy-hair grass. Harry rolled his eyes. The fact that Draco’s aesthetic sensibilities stretched to the right piece of grass for an impromptu bouquet made perfect sense with what he’d made of the man so far. He didn’t know which part was pureblood upbringing, and which was Draco, and he had no idea how to separate the two in his mind. By the time Draco found the long, green stalks he’d been looking for, the sun was overhead and it was lunchtime.

‘These are sweet, Draco, thank you,’ Dawn said, when she received the bouquets. ‘And — unusual.’

The bouquets combined wildflowers (bluebells and bugle and cow-wheat) with some fern leaves and weeds and a magpie feather, tied with a long piece of grass. They were pretty, but strange: just like Draco.

‘Place them by the window,’ Draco suggested. ‘Two different windows, north and south would be ideal. And don’t untie them,’ he added as Dawn filled two pint glasses with water for the bouquets.

Harry glanced at him. The instructions were a little _too_ specific, but he couldn’t ask him now, not when Dawn had them off doing more chores.

Esther spent the day in bed. ‘She has these days, sometimes,’ Dawn said. She and Harry had dinner alone in the evening, because Draco had volunteered to take Esther’s tray and keep her company. The falling sun rays came through the kitchen window and gilded the crockery, the glass of ale, the wrinkles on Dawn’s face. The room felt stuck in amber, a feeling which described Harry’s stay in the cottage. A beautiful stasis, a rest, or a trap. He debated the wisdom of his decision constantly, because he worried that at the end of the week he wouldn’t want to leave.

‘I’d like to thank you again, for having us,’ Harry broke the silence. ‘I know you don’t want us here—’

‘Don’t want you here?’ Dawn asked.

‘Well,’ Harry said awkwardly, ‘I know you think we’re putting you at risk—’

‘Is that why you think I don’t want you here?’

‘Isn’t it?’

Dawn shook her head. ‘I don’t want you here, because it isn’t safe for _you_. And because it’ll break Esther’s heart when you leave.’

‘But— the danger—’

Dawn smiled. ‘It might sound crazy to a city boy like you, but we’re protected. In ways you can’t see. But these ways aren’t safe for you. Now, Esther…’ Her smile vanished. ‘Esther lost both her sons before they reached twenty. She says it’s a curse, you heard her last night. “The males of my family don’t live long.” I don’t necessarily believe in curses, but I know that she’s already becoming very fond of you. Which is why I distrusted you at first.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Two boys, similar age to her sons, showing up in the middle of the night asking for help? I thought the forest sent you. That you were Them.’

‘How did you make sure?’ Harry asked.

‘Remember the ale I offered? I'd put some iron shavings inside. If you were Them, your throat would burn up.’

Harry made a mental note never to piss off Dawn. They finished their meal in silence in the darkening kitchen. Draco returned the tray and bid them goodnight. With Esther not around, everyone decided on an early night. Harry helped Dawn with her dishes and stopped by Esther’s room to chat with her a bit. He was climbing the staircase, when Draco called him from the bathroom. Harry approached the ajar door and pushed in the warm room. Draco, topless, hunched over the sink.

‘What is it?’

Draco looked up. ‘Can you help me, please?’ He turned off the hot water tap. Steam billowed in the room, fogging the window.

‘Sure.’ He walked inside the room, feeling awkward near Draco’s half-nudity.

‘I think there’s something wrong with my splinching,’ Draco said. ‘It hurts a lot more today and — well, could you take a look?’

Draco turned to face Harry, allowing him access to the hurt shoulder, but Harry’s eyes fell on the long, thin scars on his chest. He froze, unable to look anywhere else but the white, raised skin of the scars crossing Draco’s chest and flat stomach. He realised he’d been staring, but the reminder of almost killing someone stopped the words in his throat.

‘Admiring your handiwork?’ Draco asked.

Draco’s voice had no bite. In fact, Draco sounded as uncertain as Harry felt. They had been enemies, but were no more; they weren’t friends, but they were allies; they were getting to know one another; they didn’t trust each other, not entirely, but perhaps they soon would. Nothing was clear cut about the whole thing; they were trying to figure out how to relate to each other all over again, and their interactions reflected this new, blurry state of being.

Harry didn’t reply to his taunt — if that’s what it was — and glanced at Draco’s shoulder. He winced at the sight of the angry red skin and the swelling surrounding the deep cut.

‘Is it cursed?’ Draco asked.

‘It’s infected,’ Harry replied. ‘It happens with wounds when they’re not cleaned properly. Especially if they’re deep. We need some disinfectant.’

Draco stood still, while Harry rummaged in the cupboard and found cotton balls, some iodine, and a selection of plasters. His visits to the primary school’s  nurse had given him some idea of the process.

‘At school Miss Pomfrey never had to … disfect wounds.’

‘ _Disinfect_. And no, she didn’t, because magic can heal a cut before it has a chance to get infected. Dittany also helps.’ Harry dabbed the antiseptic solution onto the cotton ball. ‘This might sting a little.’ Gently, he pressed the cotton on the wound.

Draco took a sharp intake of breath.

‘When a wound is left untreated,’ Harry explained in a low voice as he cleaned the laceration, ‘it can get like this. Because of contact with the air, I think. I’m not sure.’ The cut trailed to the back of Draco’s shoulder, and Harry had to pull him close, his chest an inch from Draco's. ‘Jumping in the lake didn’t help either.’

‘What about the cuts on our palms? They’re not like this.’ Draco’s voice was hoarse. He spoke right in Harry’s ear.

It took Harry a moment to get his voice to work. ‘Probably not as a deep. Or they’re newer. In any case, we should treat them, too.’

Draco’s skin smelled of the soap they shared. It was really warm in the bathroom, the air steamy and hot and stifling. Harry chose a long, narrow plaster and applied it to the lowest part of the cut. It looked like a crooked, elongated Z, or a constellation, like the ones they had to study in Astronomy.

Draco was named after a constellation.

Harry sweated. He should open the window.

Draco stood so still he might have been frozen. Harry finished patching up the Splinched shoulder. ‘We’ll need to clean it again tomorrow. Just in case.’ He glanced at Draco’s flushed face and neck. ‘I think the infection might have given you some fever. You look warm.’

‘Yes,’ Draco said, flushing some more.

Harry should leave and go to bed and get his heartbeat under control. ‘Do you want me to do your palm?’ he said instead.

Draco nodded. He offered his open hand, and Harry held it and repeated the process. He felt Draco’s eyes on him and had to concentrate to make sure his grip was steady. His fingers traced the fleshy part of Draco’s palm entirely of their own volition.

When he let go, Draco took his hand. ‘This is what I do, right?’ he asked, picking up the cotton and soaking it with the antiseptic. He cleaned Harry’s cut with light fingers, taking a long time.

This close Harry could see the light sheen on Draco’s forehead; his hair falling on it, damp from the steam; his long lashes. Harry’s stupid heart drummed way too loudly and the thought that Draco might hear it in the quiet, warm bathroom made his face burn.

‘Um,’ Harry said, when Draco put a plaster on the cut, ‘I’m going to bed now.’

Draco let go of his hand. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

Harry fled.

He dressed for sleep in the dark, climbed under the covers, and exhaled. Harry had never been this close to a boy before, especially a half-naked one. Especially a _Malfoy_. If he’d had any doubts about his sexuality, they’d be gone now. Harry pressed his eyes shut. What was _wrong_ with him? How could he get so flustered about boys when people _died_? Why couldn’t his body understand that Harry had to fight a war and not— not be like _that_. Harry had enough on his plate without his body’s and heart’s willfulness. He couldn’t allow himself to miss Ginny, her sweet smelling hair and soft lips, or picture Draco’s chest, or Merlin forbid, his _nipples_ , or wish that he’d had the chance to hold a naked person in his arms before he had to face Voldemort. He longed to know how touching and being touched naked felt, and he loathed himself for it, because it was nothing less than selfish to think this way. Harry wasn’t supposed to be anything other than a weapon of destruction; a soldier on a mission.

He was still awake when Draco came into the room, his nipples mercifully covered by the Joy Division t-shirt he wore in bed. He was humming a melancholic melody as he climbed under the duvet.

‘Is it a song?’ Harry asked when Draco stopped.

‘A lullaby. My mother used to sing it to me when I was little and storms scared me. The sky over the Manor might have been torn by lightning, but as long as she sat by my bed and sang, I felt no fear. It always soothed me.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘It’s about a witch and her son, who live on a barge. The witch knows she’s dying and she asks the river fairies to raise her son. She sings the lullaby as a goodbye to him, telling him how much she loves him, and also saying how precious he is to convince the faeries to look after him.’

‘That’s very sad,’ Harry said. Had his mother sung to him? He could never know. ‘No one has ever sung me a lullaby. Or maybe my mother did, but I don’t remember it.’ He hated how his voice croaked. ‘It’d have been a Muggle lullaby anyway.’

There was a moment’s silence and then Draco started singing. His voice was low and the song, depressing though it was, was beautiful and mellow. Draco sang it twice — or maybe it was meant to be sung twice, Harry couldn’t know — and by the end of it, Harry teared up. Everything about that day flooded him and spilled from his eyes: the school and the Carrows, the worry over being followed to this cottage, cleaning Draco’s wounds in the bathroom, the looming figure of Voldemort whenever he dared to consider his future. Notes floated between them, words of a mother’s love which continues even after death. Harry let his tears flow, glad for the darkness that hid them. He didn’t want Draco to know that he was so touched; that it was the first time he was sung to. But he wanted to offer something in return, because the lullaby felt like a gift, and so Harry reached under the covers and found Draco’s hand, and held it. He pressed it tight, a thank you in the pressure, and Draco pressed back. It was a real truce brought on by music and memory and longing. Draco let go first, and Harry turned to his side and stared in the darkness until sleep took him.


	4. The Cottage Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know -- you're shocked! But it's true, Chapter 4 is here! [insert gif 'it's been 84 years'] Thank you for your patience, dear readers. Here's some smut to make it up to you <3
> 
> I owe many thanks to **Brief and Dreamy** for her fast work on this  <3

A feathery sensation tickled Harry awake. He scrunched his face and pressed his cheek to his pillow, hoping for another couple of hours of sleep. The feathery thing tickled him again and, with a low grumble, he brushed it off. His fingers found some resistance, which startled him enough to open his eyes.

The feathery thing was Draco’s hair and the resistance was the back of his head. Harry found himself pressed against Draco’s back, and drowsiness fled as another sensation rushed in.

Dawn hadn’t broken yet and the night was full of the sounds of the woods outside and the creaks of the old, groaning house. In the half-light of the waning moon, Harry stared transfixed at the blond head in front of him. Draco’d let his hair grow this year. It brushed his ears and covered his eyes and now it fanned on the pillow; liquid silver on blue cotton. Soft strands moved with Harry’s exhales.

Harry tried to return to sleep, but he was unable to tear his eyes from the elegant column of Draco’s neck, the muscle that curved downwards to a sharp shoulder. Soft fuzz covered Draco’s neck, and Harry couldn’t find it in himself to move back. His eyes kept straying to the edge of Draco’s T-shirt, which hid the rest of his skin from Harry.

He hadn’t expected that waking next to Draco would be an issue. When they’d discovered the one bed, Harry — busy with thoughts of the war and his friends, exhausted by their troubles — had failed to anticipate it’d be a problem.

But it was becoming one, especially at moments like this. Sharing a bed brought forth a whole new set of reactions in Harry’s body that he wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with. Recalling their past enmity didn’t help, because Draco in sleep wasn’t Draco Malfoy: he was just a boy. He looked almost like a new person as if sleep erased his identity, leaving behind only a young man, long-limbed and slender; a man who breathed steadily and occasionally snored; a man who curled into himself at night. Everything that made him  _Draco_  — his acidic tongue, his sharp mind, his deplorable ethics — was obscured by the flesh and blood body that lay so close to Harry that he could feel the curve of Draco’s spine.

Harry inhaled, taking in the smells they shared: the shampoo, the soap, the fabric softener Dawn used — and the one scent they didn’t: that of Draco’s skin. His longing to trace Draco’s neck overpowered him — in the dark he could pretend it was all a dream — and he brushed a finger along the curve of it.

Draco shifted at the touch and Harry snatched his hand back. He prayed Draco wouldn’t turn and shout at him as he had every right to. But Draco’s breathing didn’t change, just his position: he settled against Harry’s chest, his arse against Harry’s lap.

This position had an unfortunate effect on Harry’s groin; a reaction that would prove mortifying if Draco woke now with Harry’s rapidly hardening cock pressed against his arse cheeks. Making as little sound as possible, Harry extricated himself and padded down to the bathroom. Locking himself in, he slid his hand in his boxers and closed his eyes. Merlin, it’d been  _ages_. Tugging the foreskin up and down, his cock pulsing with forgotten delight, Harry dutifully pictured Ginny as he always did at first: her pert arse, the softness of her breasts, her hair falling on his face as she’d straddled him and kissed him. But as his hand tightened around his cock and arousal spread through his veins, his mind favoured other images: Wood in the showers, water sluicing down his back; Dean in his underwear in their dorm, soft from sleep; Cedric dripping out of that fucking lake.

And then: Draco. Harry panted with exertion, his fist flying on his prick, as the images unspooled in his mind, one after the other in a frantic succession. He imagined shoving his tongue in Draco’s mouth; Draco smirking before he sucked him off; Draco spreading his legs; long fingers playing with Harry’s balls, an arse that begged to be kneaded, lips parted, eyes closed, skin flushed, Draco naked, Draco half-dressed, Draco on his knees, Draco thrusting inside Harry— ugghh.

  _Fuck_.

When he returned to bed, he stayed as far from Draco as he could. Why did Harry have to be seventeen? Nearing seventy, Voldemort probably didn’t have to deal with inconvenient boners, getting in the way of his taking over the world. It was fucking unfair.

 

A couple of hours later, a hand shook Harry awake. He sat up and fumbled for his glasses, the memory of last night’s wank returning and heating his cheeks as he took in Draco, hair all mussed and face languid from sleep.

Draco snorted.

‘What?’ Harry asked.

‘Your hair's a  _mess_. Look at this!’ Draco reached out and tugged a few dark strands. ‘Never thought it could get even  _more_ —’

Harry flinched and Draco froze. He slowly drew his hand back, a wounded expression appearing on his face and melting away just as swiftly. His voice grew cold even as his eyes burned. ‘I’m not contagious.’

‘I know you’re not,’ Harry said, heart thumping.

Draco gathered his clothes and left the room, his back straight as a rod, and Harry punched the pillow. For a second there, he’d been tempted to lean in Draco’s touch, to let him run his fingers through Harry’s hair and maybe pull him closer, face to face… Harry couldn’t allow Draco to know how much he was beginning to affect him.

During the rest of the day, Harry wouldn’t meet Draco’s eyes for fear he’d see right through him and sneer at his pathetic attraction. Harry avoided even glancing at him when Draco handed him a cup of tea, or dried dishes by his side, or walked in the forest in the morning in a strained silence, picking up wood for the fire and flowers for more elaborate and bizarre bouquets, which Draco then placed at specific locations in the house. Harry’s early morning wank had unlocked something inside him and now Harry couldn’t look at Draco and not notice his arms flexing when he lifted something heavy, or his arse in the Oxfam jeans, or the way his eyes wrinkled when he smiled — which he did to the ladies, a lot. This newly-woken attraction to Draco rippled under Harry’s skin, threatening to spill out; Harry had always been a crap Occlumens.

‘The fuck’s wrong with you?’ Draco erupted at lunch when Harry passed him the salt without a glance.

‘Language, Draco,’ said Dawn.

‘I apologise.’ Draco’s eyes remained on Harry, demanding an explanation, but Harry engaged Dawn in a conversation about the local Cornish saints, and Draco didn’t say anything else until he cornered Harry in the hallway after lunch.

‘Well?’

Harry feigned interest in the ficus next to the mirror. ‘Well what?’

‘You know what. You won’t say a word to me. Is it because I touched your precious hair in the morning?’ Draco seemed furious and maybe even a little hurt.

Harry fumbled for an excuse. ‘I’m worried about my friends, ‘sall.’ Draco scoffed in disbelief, and the sound managed to dredge out the simmering rage and worry that Harry had suppressed these past four days. ‘Last time I saw them, they were being tortured by Death Eaters.’ He pursed his lips after blurting that out, knowing he’d aimed below the belt.

Cold contempt met his words. ‘You’re such an arsehole,’ Draco said and stalked away.

 

Harry had almost finished fixing a pipe in the downstairs loo late that afternoon (gaining a newfound respect for plumbers in the process) when Draco called him. Music drifted from the radio in the kitchen where Esther and Dawn were cooking a particularly fragrant roast; homely, comforting sounds and smells. Harry debated ignoring him, but Draco called him again, more urgently.

‘What is it?’ Harry walked into the living room, wiping his hands on a cloth.

Draco had been staring at the TV with a duster in his hands, horror written over his face. Harry turned to see, and his blood chilled. The local news was on, a reporter with coiffed brown hair speaking to the camera in front of a burnt out shop front. ‘…the tragedy has shaken the local community. Beth Cooper and Pauline Seacole were well-liked by…’

It couldn’t be. Harry’s brain refused to accept it, denying the truth of his eyes even as the news showed smiling pictures of the two ladies he and Draco had bought clothes from in Camelford.

‘…still unclear how the fire started, Jim. The fire department has ruled out electrical fault, but arson remains a possibility.  The local residents talk of suspicious strangers in town this morning, in  _costume_  no less, but friends of the two ladies also mention an unusual encounter with two young men, who offered Cooper real gold for Oxfam clothing two days ago.’

‘Gold for Oxfam clothing? Was this a scam?’ The presenter at the studio asked.

‘It sounds like a scam — especially as the young men claimed to be part of the royal family — however, the gold they offered was one hundred percent real, according to a bank teller.’

‘Baffling, Susan.’

‘Indeed it is. The gold coins have not been found and some speculate that theft was the reason behind the fire. The locals are concerned, especially in regards with another baffling crime: the unusual circumstances surrounding the deaths of John Oakes and Jeremy Stevens at the rental cottage by Dozmary Pool on Sunday evening.’

‘A terrible thing, Susan…’

The news continued with a report on the devastation caused in the touristic areas by hurricanes. Harry remained standing, his mind churning. He’d have thought that after all those deaths he’d witnessed he’d have an easier time dealing with casual murder. He’d seen Sirius fall in the Veil. He’d seen Dumbledore murdered by a man he trusted. Harry had clutched Cedric’s body; he’d raged at the mindless death of someone who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Just like these two women. Just like the couple at the lake.

It never got any easier.

A cheery tune sang from the kitchen radio, Dawn’s voice rising with it, the merriness incongruous with the weight around Harry’s heart, threatening to pull him under. He looked at his trembling hands.

‘How did they find them?’ he asked, raising his head to gaze at Draco for the first time today.

Draco’d gone paler than normal, his eyes shining. ‘I imagine the galleons.’

Harry didn’t say anything else for fear he’d be sick.

Dinner was a near silent affair, but the two ladies didn’t pry. Harry’s attraction to Draco seemed like a silly problem now, trivial and inconsequential. There were larger problems; a much bigger guilt in which he could drown. His rage for the Death Eaters overwhelmed everything else, his purpose simmering in his veins, making him itch to leave this place, find a working wand, and hex the lot of them into oblivion.

God, he’d give anything for a wand right now.

Climbing the stairs after dinner, Draco headed to the first floor bathroom and Harry paused at the landing. Last night he’d promised Draco he’d help clean his wound again, but Draco shut the door behind him without a backward glance, his stiff back the only indication he was upset.

Harry could go to bed. Draco knew how to treat the laceration now, and even if it was hard to reach… well, he’d manage, surely. Still, Harry lingered on the landing, listening to the tap running, thinking that for once he shared the burden with another person; for once, he needn’t carry his guilt alone.

Harry knocked on the door. ‘Can I come in?’

After a long moment: ‘If you want.’

Harry’s heart beat fast when he entered the steamy bathroom and shut the door behind him. Draco was in the middle of dabbing antiseptic on a cotton ball, like Harry had shown him. He refused to look at Harry.

‘Let me,’ Harry said.

Draco shrugged. Harry took the cotton ball from him and began dabbing the shoulder wound. ‘It doesn’t look as inflamed as yesterday. It’s healing.’

Neither of them spoke while Harry cleaned the long cut, touching it softly with one hand. The other hand found its way to Draco’s bare waist, for balance, as he drew Draco to him to reach the back of his shoulder. Draco breathed heavily and for a brief moment — so brief that Harry thought he might have imagined it — he laid the side of his head against Harry’s.

‘It’s our fault they’re dead,’ Draco murmured.

Harry’s hand trembled a little as he put the plasters on the Splinching. He told Draco what Hermione would have said; what his brain insisted was true despite the protests of his heart. ‘The Death Eaters killed them.  _They_  cast the spell, not us. We can’t take—’ But he couldn’t continue. He didn’t believe it. His heart protested too loudly. If he hadn’t walked in that shop, the ladies wouldn’t be dead, simple as that. How do you escape this kind of truth?

‘Her name was Beth,’ Draco said again. ‘We never asked.’

‘No, we didn’t.’ Harry finished patching him up and met Draco’s eyes. Draco stared back, looking lost and hurt and desolate. Looking like he had that other time in the girls’ bathroom in Hogwarts. Draco had been responsible for nearly killing Katie and Ron then.

‘I don’t think it ever goes away. This feeling.’ Harry still held on Draco’s waist, his skin warm and soft, the touch an anchor binding them together in this new grief.

Draco’s eyes brimmed and he blinked fast, controlling his face as he always did, masking his emotions under a half-arsed sneer. ‘As if you’d know. Gryffindor’s shining hero.’

Harry lowered his gaze to Draco’s chest. ‘I know regret.’ He didn’t add:  _I’ve lived for years with my impetuous decision to “save” Sirius. With creating these on you._

A tap dripped in the shower, the sound echoing in the hollow silence.

‘They don’t hurt now,’ Draco said gently.

Harry nodded, trying to suppress the swelling of emotion in his chest. He forced himself to meet Draco’s eyes. ‘I didn’t mean to accuse you earlier… about my friends, and what your aunt did. I didn’t mean to imply that it was your fault. I know you tried to help us.’

If Harry hadn’t been around Draco so much recently, he’d have missed the subtle way his expression brightened. ‘It didn’t do much good, did it?’ Draco said.

‘Still. Thank you for trying.’ Harry took a step back and breathed deep. ‘Coming?’

‘In a minute,’ Draco said. ‘I — I need a minute.’

Lying in bed, trying to calm himself enough to sleep, Harry rubbed his scar. It’d tingled for most of the day, but no visions had assaulted him. Draco came in and slid under the covers. Long moments passed with them breathing side by side, staring at the ceiling. Draco’s breaths sounded calm. When he spoke, his voice was level. ‘I don’t know why murder keeps surprising me. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.’

‘Remember whose fault it is,’ Harry said. The thought bounced in his brain like a mantra:  _It’s Voldemort’s fault. It all goes back to him_.

Draco said, ‘I do. I just— it’s selfish maybe, but I can’t help thinking that I might be next. In four days even. We won’t be here forever.’

‘You won’t die.’ Harry’s voice startled him with its intensity. He wouldn’t be able to bear it if Draco were captured after everything they’d gone through. Despite the fact Draco’d been a bully at school, despite the abominable Mark on his arm, he still didn’t deserve to die like this, a scared seventeen year old hunted by his parents’ associates. ‘ _I won’t let it happen_.’

Draco chuckled. ‘Of course you won’t. You’ll save us all.’ His tone was slightly mocking, but affectionate rather than cruel.

They said nothing else for some time, but neither of them seemed able to sleep.

‘You know what I‘m sorry about in this whole affair?’ Draco said, affecting nonchalance. ‘That I’ll die a fucking virgin.’

Harry’s mouth went dry. He hummed something indistinct.

Draco whispered, ‘Is sex as good as people say, Harry?’

‘How should I know?’ Harry asked, his hands sweating.

‘Didn’t you bang Weasley?’

‘No, I didn’t  _bang_  her, you twat. We…’ Harry swallowed, not sure why he was confiding. The dark made it easier. ‘We just made out a lot.’

‘I only kissed two people,’ Draco said. ‘Pansy and Theo. If I’d known I’d die so soon, I’d have kissed a hundred.’

Harry’s brain stilled. ‘You… er… kissed a boy?’

‘Is that a problem?’ Draco asked, voice cold.

‘No!’ Harry hastened to reply. ‘I just had no idea—’

‘Why would you?’

They hadn’t taken their eyes from the ceiling, as if this conversation didn’t involve them. Perhaps it was easier to talk about sex to the ceiling. Harry attempted to deal with this news as calmly as he could, even though his heart — and cock — swelled with the thrill of  _possibility_. He’d had fantasies about Cedric and Bill Weasley in the past, but seeing as they were both straight, Harry’s fantasies had felt harmless; an idle exercise, a private unreality he liked to spend some time in. But now Harry had fantasized about someone who lay beside him and confessed to liking boys, too. Someone who Harry could reach out and touch, and who might — the idea made Harry’s blood simmer —  _welcome_ the touch.

Harry really should turn his back and go to sleep. Draco shifted and Harry caught Draco’s body heat very close to him, and his scent.

‘I’ve never kissed a boy,’ Harry told the ceiling.

Silence. Harry’s heart drummed. He counted the exposed beams over his head. Five.

‘Would you like to?’ Draco’s voice was barely audible.

‘I guess…’ Harry hedged. ‘Just to see if it’s any different.’

Silence followed, but a pregnant silence, full of fluttering butterflies and words trapped in throats. A silence that held its breath, waiting to see where the conversation might lead. Harry swallowed and turned to watch Draco’s profile in the night’s silver light. ‘Is it? Any different?’

Draco shrugged. ‘It was for me. Kissing Pansy was an experiment, a failed one. Kissing Theo — it felt better. I prefer kissing boys, I think.’

‘I liked kissing Ginny,’ Harry said. ‘Maybe I prefer women.’  _Lie, lie, lie._

Draco gazed at him. He chewed his bottom lip for a moment, drawing Harry’s eyes there. ‘I know you hate me,’ Draco said, his voice low, ‘but seeing as we’ll probably die soon, you could… test it. If you want. With — with me. Just so you’ll know.’

‘I don’t hate you,’ Harry said with conviction. There were worse monsters in the world than Draco Malfoy.

Draco kept staring, wordlessly asking for a reply.

‘Sure,’ Harry said, aiming at casual and failing. ‘Just so I’ll know.’

Both stalled, awkward now that kissing was on the table. Harry didn’t know if he should make the first move or whether Draco would. Tense like a diver about to jump off a cliff, Harry shuffled and brought his face closer to Draco’s, his heart in his throat.

Draco cleared his voice. ‘Let me…’ He rose to his elbow. Propped over Harry, Draco gazed at him with enigmatic eyes, cupped his cheek and kissed him.

Heat spread from Harry’s mouth to all his nerve endings, his limbs slack under a wave of desire. He raised his hand to Draco’s neck, stroking the soft fuzz he’d seen in the morning, pressing him close. Draco tilted his head, opened his mouth and Harry mirrored him, sliding his tongue against Draco’s.

Harry had no idea how long they kissed. Minutes, or hours maybe — or years. Time meant nothing when the world had become Draco’s warm mouth, his slick tongue, his plump lips. Draco’s hand found its way into Harry’s hair, caressing it with delicate movements. As if Harry was a fragile thing to be handled with care. The tightness in Harry’s chest dissolved, a knot unravelling that made it a little easier to breathe. Warmth and pleasure soothed earlier aches and worries. Harry felt terribly aroused, his cock straining against his bottoms, but more than anything he felt warm and pliant; a dough Draco could knead into star shapes if he wanted to.

Draco could do anything to Harry now if he wanted to.

Minutes, days, years later, Draco pulled back. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight. ‘Well?’

Harry's voice came out hoarse. ‘It was nice.’  _Lie, lie, lie_ : It’d been amazing, thrilling, intoxicating.

‘Good.’ Draco gave him a half smile before lying back down. ‘Now you know. Well, good night.’ He turned his back to Harry.

Turned on and breathless, Harry wondered if he could rub one off without Draco noticing. He wondered if Draco was thinking the same thing, if perhaps he was wanking right now, but if he was, he was being awfully stealthy about it. Harry debated escaping to the bathroom again, but in the end his arousal softened as a feeling of fatigue and solace washed over him, and he dozed off with the taste of Draco in his mouth.

 

~*~

 

Draco and Esther were tending the herbs in the garden the next day, the sun peeking from behind fast-moving clouds. The forest moaned around the cottage as a cold wind tore through the tree branches. Harry had been watching Draco and Esther through the kitchen window as they pulled out weeds and dug into damp soil. Draco was saying something, his gestures expressive in the way his face never was, and Esther listened with a smile that betrayed great fondness.

Harry’s heart clenched every time he looked at Draco. He’d  _kissed_  him. It felt unreal in the daylight: this was  _Malfoy_ , son of a Death Eater, who’d taunted Harry for years and who’d willingly joined the most brutal regime Britain had ever known. Harry could picture Mad-Eye Moody rising from the grave to scold him for taking it up with someone who, for all intents and purposes, could well still be a Death Eater.

In the garden, Draco had moved near Esther, pointing at a plant. Something he said made her laugh. Draco raised his eyes and noticed Harry watching; he flipped Harry off but smiled doing it, and Harry grinned and gave him two fingers back.

Perhaps there wasn’t one Malfoy, but many: the arrogant twat, the bigot, the coddled toff, but also the old lady befriender, the doubter of blood purism, the bizarre bouquet maker.

The gentle kisser.

‘Do you think people can change?’ Harry asked Dawn, who was cutting onions behind him. His scar itched and he rubbed it absently.

She sliced some more, her expression thoughtful. ‘I reckon it’s possible, my love.’ She put down the knife, rinsed her hands and approached Harry, following his gaze outside. ‘Depends how much they want to.’

Outside, Esther attempted to rise and Draco held her by the elbow to assist her.

Dawn spoke. ‘He’s one of them wiccans, isn’t he?’

Harry had heard of this religion. Uncle Vernon had some choice words to say about it.

Dawn continued. ‘Those robe-things were his, weren’t they? Pure silk. I could tell, even without a label. His knowledge of the herbs. Those bouquets he brings for the four corners of the house.’ She returned to her onions and picked up the knife. ‘My nan was a witch. Not a wiccan; just an old lady that lived in a village and made ointments and spoke to the birds. I spent half my childhood with her. I know the protection plants.’

‘Protection plants?’ Harry asked.

‘Cowslip for the south, heath for the east, heather for where the wind blows; bluebells by the door to alert for danger, all tied with Snake’s Tongue leaf to misdirect those who wish harm. My nan taught me all she knew, bless her soul.’

Stunned, Harry thought back to the bouquets Draco had brought back from the forest. His scar burned him, but all he could think of was that Draco had been collecting flowers in a desperate attempt to protect the cottage. Not that he’d deemed it fit to let Harry know. Harry felt his anger rise, his blood roaring in his veins, drowning the kitchen noise — until suddenly he realised: it wasn’t  _his_  anger.

Just before he blacked out, he heard Dawn yell.

Voldemort stood in a room Harry hadn’t seen before, holding two galleons, while Rookwood and Dolohov bent before him in submission. Fury possessed him, and he clasped the Elder Wand tight but didn’t use it.

‘Four and a half days,’ Harry hissed. ‘Four and a half days of  _incompetence_.’

‘We brought information, my lord,’ Dolohov mumbled. ‘We know their destination.’

‘ _Information_? I wanted the boys at my feet, bound and begging for mercy.’

Voldemort turned from the men and sat on a carved ebony chair, his mind seething. He’d sent one of his most ruthless men and a former spy, and they’d not found two stupid boys! If he asked Severus to help… But he feared Severus might have a soft spot for the Malfoy brat, which could complicate things. Best to leave him at Hogwarts. Rowle had orders to parlay with the giants. McNair and Greyback were rounding up the werewolves. And he himself needed to seek other wand makers to learn what he could about the Elder Wand. Unbidden, a spark of amusement rose inside him. He’d asked Lucius to research wandlore in his vast library; as if he was a lowly clerk. Lucius’s face had suggested he was aware of the humiliation. His most useful ally Lucius might be — with his money, his house and his connections — but his heart wasn’t in it; Voldemort could always tell.

‘I’m not ungrateful.’ Voldemort decided on being magnanimous. ‘I appreciate you finding out the boys had sought directions to Tinworth. Augustus’s idea to “ask down the pub” was a stroke of genius that, frankly, I didn’t expect from him. Now go to Tinworth and find out if they’ve arrived. Someone must have seen them. If not, wait for them there.’

But why would they delay? Something in all of this didn’t add up and Voldemort hated things not making sense. Why not Apparate to Tinworth? Why wander in a moor, out in the open?

Unless they were looking for something.  

Voldemort stopped his men before they reached the door. ‘I changed my mind. Anton, go to Tinworth. Augustus, you’re to search the moor. Every inch of the place.’

‘Harry? Harry!’

Harry blinked, gasping for air. Dread flooded him as he struggled, as always, to come to. The vision pulled him under, but Draco’s breath fell hot on his face. ‘Harry!’

Draco cupped his face, a strong odour of soil and herbs emanating from his hands. Harry clasped Draco’s hands as they lay on his cheeks, turned his head and inhaled. Rosemary and thyme and sage. The memory of the dim room dissolved. Harry opened his eyes properly. Draco, wide-eyed and scared, hovered over him while Dawn and Esther stood further back, wearing concerned expressions. The cottage kitchen with the cluttered shelves, the bubbling pot on the stove, the smells of garlic and roast potatoes brought Harry an immense sense of relief. He dreaded that one day he’d be unable to find his way back to himself from his visions.

Draco helped him up, leaving his hand on Harry’s back.

‘OK there, Harry?’ Dawn asked.

‘Draco said you have fits sometimes,’ Esther said.

Exchanging a glance with Draco, Harry said, ‘I’m fine now.’

‘Best go for a nap,’ Esther said. ‘We’ll call you for dinner.’

‘I don’t—’ Harry objected, but Draco interrupted. ‘I’ll make sure he gets some rest.’

They went up the stairs and into the attic. Draco kept his word: he forced Harry to lie down, covered him with the duvet, and sat by his side.

‘I’m not an invalid,’ Harry protested.

‘What did you see?’ Draco asked.

Harry sat up. ‘They found out — from Beth and Pauline — that we’re heading to Tinworth. Dolohov will go there to wait for us.’ Draco blanched. Harry continued. ‘There’s more.  _He_  knows something’s not right. Not Apparating — that’s made him suspicious. But he thinks it’s because we were looking for something in the moor. Rookwood is going to be searching the area to discover what it might be.’

Draco stared outside the window behind the bed, hands clenched as he thought. Harry could still smell the rosemary on them.

‘I see no reason for worry,’ Draco said finally, his voice steady. ‘We won’t stroll into Tinworth as if we’re going sightseeing. We’ll be careful. As for Rookwood… pshaw. He can’t find a galleon in a pile of knuts.’

Harry bit his lip. ‘I think that perhaps you should stay here.’ He ignored Draco’s astonishment and ploughed on. ‘It’s not safe for you out there. Besides, you’re not heading anywhere in particular. You just need to stay out of sight. This is the best place. I bet Esther would love to have you. You might even learn to vacuum.’ He hastened to make a joke, because Draco’s eyes glinted dangerously.

‘And you? You’ll walk into Tinworth and fight Death Eaters with a broken wand? You’ll die before you step foot in the town.’ Draco pulled the wand out of the back of his jeans and brandished it. ‘I hate this,’ he growled in frustration. ‘Hate having no way to fight back. It’s fucking useless, it can’t even Summon a glass of water.’ He pointed it at a book on the dresser, his voice mocking. ‘Accio book—’

The book wobbled, rose an inch in the air, and plopped on the floor.

‘What the—’ Draco murmured.

He stared at the wand in his hands. Harry trailed his finger along the crack, certain that it’d been bigger before. ‘It looks like it’s mending itself,’ he said. ‘That’s odd.’

‘That’s not odd,’ Draco said in a shocked voice. ‘That’s impossible.’

They shared a few moments of stunned silence as they both digested the news.

‘I’m going to head back down.’ Draco walked to the door, but Harry called behind him. ‘Think about what I said, OK? I can’t stay here. I need to find Ron and Hermione, and we— Look, I can’t stay here.  _But you can_. Think about it.’

Draco gave him an unfathomable look and shut the door behind him. Harry opened the window, letting the wind cool his clammy face. He didn’t need sleep after his visions — in fact he dreaded it, because it’d be easier to slip into another one. What he needed were strong sensations to ground him to his body. Harry leaned outside the window, the wind lashing at his hair, whipping it back from his face. The rustling of the trees sounded like sea waves if he closed his eyes. He filled his lungs with the smell of spring, buds and grass and pollen, and he mulled over the news.

Harry hadn’t consciously thought of his suggestion to Draco until he made it. Back in Camelford he’d assumed he’d reach Tinworth and shake off Draco, but now things had changed. They were getting to know each other and tolerate each other; they worked together and ate together and slept next to each other ( _and they’d kissed_ , Harry’s mind insisted on reminding him). Leaving Draco alone and wandless outside Tinworth with no explanation would feel like abandoning him. Worse: condemning him.

On the other hand, taking him to Shell Cottage was out of the question. No, here was the best place for him. He’d be safe, and when Harry found his friends and had access to a wand, he’d come and cast some protective spells, just in case. And maybe — maybe he could see Draco again.

 

After dinner and another murder mystery on TV where Dawn had figured out the murderer early on, while Draco made outrageous guesses (‘I hate this Poirot guy,’ Draco had said in the end. ‘He’s too clever for his own good and I don’t like his mustache’), Harry said goodnight and retreated to bed. He lay in the dark and thought of Ron and Hermione, hoping they were safe and well. He wondered if they’d taken up the Horcrux search on their own or if they were looking for him. He hoped Hermione had healed after her torture.

Voldemort made the world a darker place. Harry hated the visions, because being in Voldemort’s head, he sensed the void inside him: a black hole that swallowed everything that was light and sweet and kind. Sharing Voldemort’s mind terrified Harry for he feared one day the black hole would devour him, too; gobble him up and spit out a hollow shell.

Turning to his side, Harry stared at Draco’s empty pillow. He’d been a while coming to bed — had he discovered late night TV? Harry ignored the desire to go seek him out. Draco would come to bed when he wanted to, Harry wasn’t his guardian. He’d just thought… Well, never mind that.

But with Draco absent… Harry slipped his hand inside his boxers to palm his prick. Much more comfortable in bed than in the bathroom. He shuffled to Draco’s pillow and buried his nose in it while his cock twitched in delight. No one else visited his fantasies tonight but Draco naked and sprawled on the bed, his long legs on Harry’s shoulders as Harry grabbed his hips and shoved his—

The door creaked open and Harry froze. Draco tiptoed in the room and dressed for bed in the dark while Harry, mortified and sporting a magnificent erection, removed his hand from his cock very quietly and carefully, and pretended to be asleep.

Footsteps. The duvet was lifted. Harry kept his eyes shut, hoping Draco would think he’d sprawled all over Draco’s side in his sleep, and not because Harry’d wanted to smell him in the sheets.

The mattress dipped. ‘Harry?’ Draco whispered. ‘Are you asleep?’

His breath tickled Harry’s cheeks. If only Harry had kept to his half of the bed or even faced the other way. Now Draco would shove him out of his side and Harry would have to pretend to wake up after pretending to be asleep, and that was a lot of pretending. He wasn’t sure he was a good enough actor.

But Draco didn’t push him. He snuggled close to Harry and settled there, curled on his side, facing Harry. Fuck. That was  _worse_. But after some peaceful moments when only their breathing filled the air, Harry allowed himself to relax.

Just when he thought he might be falling asleep, something touched his waist.

Abruptly alert, eyes firmly shut, Harry waited. Draco’s hand had drifted on his waist, on the bare skin under Harry’s t-shirt which had ridden up; casually, as if they were lovers. Cold sweat ran down Harry’s back with the effort of holding himself still as Draco became more daring, stroking Harry’s skin with an almost-there touch. Goosebumps erupted in the wake of Draco’s fingers. Feverish anticipation swelled inside Harry; he wondered if Draco would pull his hand back after this casual exploration or if he’d touch Harry some more. If he’d touch Harry  _elsewhere_. The thought alone brought shivers down his spine and Harry sucked his stomach in at a sudden wash of desire.

Draco stopped, his fingers hovering over Harry’s skin. Harry stayed resolutely still, his heart a wild drum, hoping Draco wouldn’t stop touching him. He yearned for  _more_ , but felt unable to ask for it; lust and nervousness swirled in Harry’s stomach, drowning out all rational thought.

Draco’s breathing changed; it sounded shallower and faster as he moved his hand with rather more determination than before. Eyes shut, feigning sleep because it was easier than admitting how much he wanted this, Harry concentrated on the fiery trail of Draco’s touch as his hand stroked Harry’s ribs, his waist, and then,  _oh mother of god_ , slithered towards Harry’s stomach. Inch by inch, Draco explored the soft skin there. A tremor built in Harry’s muscles, which he suppressed with effort; he didn’t want to pretend to wake up and break the spell. He wanted Draco to keep touching him.

And Draco did. His movements were unhurried, as if they had all night.  A long finger traced Harry’s belly button, then followed the hair on Harry’s stomach all the way to the waistband of Harry’s trackies. But he hovered there, at the edge of decency, fingertips over the elastic band, then retreated to Harry’s belly button to repeat the itinerary. Again and again in a maddening circle, never going any lower.

The next time Draco’s hand travelled over the waistband of his bottoms, Harry let his legs fall open. As imperceptibly as possible — but Draco inhaled sharply and Harry knew he’d felt it. Harry squirmed “sleepily”, his head settling against Draco’s shoulder, his pelvis flat on the bed, an open invitation. He remained there, hoping Draco would understand what he’d meant:  _Yes. Go on._

And then — Harry’s heart sang triumphantly: Draco slipped his hand in Harry’s boxers.

Draco’s slowness was as exasperating as it was heady. He seemed in no hurry at all, oblivious as to how desperate he made Harry feel. He leisurely made small eights on Harry’s lower stomach, ignoring Harry’s erection — he must have felt it by now, he must’ve known what his touch was doing — and just when Harry thought he’d scream from frustration, Draco’s fingertips touched his pubes, his hand trembling a little. The fact Draco was equally affected gave great satisfaction to Harry. He shouldn’t be the only one losing his mind.

Nuzzling Draco’s shoulder, his breath trapped in his chest, Harry waited…

And then sweet relief and delight: Draco touched his cock. Harry gasped, all pretense forgotten. Draco also breathed heavily as he curled his hand around Harry’s cock and gave it a nice, firm stroke.

 _Fucking hell_. Someone else  _was touching Harry’s cock._  Mind blown,  fighting against the urge to come  _right fucking now_ , Harry concentrated on the feeling of another person’s fingers warm and rough against the sensitive foreskin. Harry breathed heavily, his eyes fluttering as wave after wave of pleasure surged through his veins. He’d no idea it was like this, no fucking clue. He buried his face in the crook of Draco’s neck, sniffing greedily at his scent, familiar and thrilling at the same time: wood and wet grass and lightning; like playing Quidditch during a summer storm.

Draco panted now, his hips squirming, and Harry realised he must be hard too. Stretching his hand, he pawed at Draco’s bottoms and traced the outline of his cock, hard and long, tenting the material. Draco bucked into the touch and Harry rubbed his cock through the soft fabric, feeling the damp spot where his cock had leaked. Harry’s mind had been reduced to cinders; pure instinct drove his actions. He fumbled with Draco’s bottoms and found his cock and fisted it. Draco whimpered, his hand tightening on Harry’s cock.

They’d shifted on their sides by now, hands on each other’s pricks. Neither of them had said a word, they hadn’t even kissed; they just breathed hard and touched and  _felt._  Harry was unable to even  _think_ coherently, let alone form something as complicated as words. It was perfect, torturous bliss. It was absolute, delicious hell.

Harry bucked his hips furiously, seeking more friction, when abruptly Draco pulled his hand back. Before Harry had time to protest, Draco had sat up, jerked his bottoms and pants down, and with a swift movement he hovered over Harry, his eyes asking for something.

At that moment, Harry would give him  _anything_. He squirmed off his own bottoms, kicking them off one leg, and lay back, gazing at Draco. Draco looked flushed, his hair damp on his face, gorgeous and utterly debauched; as hot as every wet dream Harry had ever had. Harry spread his legs and Draco slotted his hips inside them, pressing his cock against Harry’s and starting a slow, rapturous grind. No words were exchanged; their eyes spoke a language of their own.

Propped on his elbows at the sides of Harry’s shoulders, Draco brought them face to face as he rolled his hips faster, and Harry stared at him helplessly, his body on fire, his head swimming in a wild, heady euphoria. Drunk with  _wanting_ , Harry wrapped his hand around Draco, rising to finally capture his pretty mouth with his. Their kiss turned messy, filthy, sloppy even, as Harry opened his legs wider, feeling Draco’s balls rub against his, his cock almost aching at the friction. He wrapped his legs around Draco’s hips and squeezed him tight, craving more pressure, more friction. More  _Draco_. His hands roved down Draco’s slick back and cupped his arse, which flexed with the effort of grinding against Harry. The room filled with their moans and grunts, and finally riding the crest of his climax, Harry came all over their stomachs, his body quivering from the force of it. Draco rose and fisted his cock, and Harry watched avidly, as long pearly ropes of Draco’s spunk rained on his chest and stomach.

They caught their breaths lying on their backs, Harry’s hand on Draco’s. He took off his T-shirt and wiped the come off his skin. He turned to Draco, who gazed at him with dark eyes, and cleaned him, too.

‘Take off your clothes,’ was the first thing Harry said that night. His voice sounded gruff, as if he hadn’t used it in years.

Draco blinked, curious, but he obeyed. Harry kicked off his trackies that’d been stuck on one leg. Now they were both naked.

‘I want to touch you,’ Harry told Draco. He ran a finger along his ribs. ‘I want to touch you everywhere.’

Draco’s eyes filled with wonder and delight. ‘Help yourself,’ he said in a teasing tone, gesturing with careless elegance to his body.

Harry smiled at him before he gave in to his ardent desire and explored every inch of Draco’s body. He caressed Draco’s stomach and the fair hair that led to his resting cock; he stroked all the way down Draco’s leg, touching his ankles and his toes one by one; his hand travelled up the inside of Draco’s leg, cupping his balls and weighing them in his palm.

‘I you wanted to hurt me, all you'd need to do to hurt me is clench your fist and pull,’ Draco rasped, his face more open than Harry had ever seen it.

‘I won’t hurt you,’ Harry said. ‘Not again.’

Draco’s back yielded next to Harry’s inquisition, as did his arse, which Harry squeezed, enjoying the dimples that formed in the pale cheeks. Draco was laughing by then, teasing Harry for his dedication (‘which you never showed in any lesson, I reckon’) and Harry chuckled (‘you forget Defence, I showed plenty of dedication there’), but didn’t let up.

He left Draco’s chest for last. He’d snuggled next to Draco’s side by then and Draco wrapped his arm around him. Harry’s fingertips followed the trails of the scars from one end to the other.

Only one part of Draco’s body was excluded from Harry’s exploration: Draco’s left forearm. Neither made any mention of it, but the shape of the Mark squatted between them, the ugly elephant in the room. Harry had no idea what was going to happen with him and Draco now; what it’d all meant. If it meant anything. Kissing was one thing, but this — this had been something else, something that had branded Harry in a way. Draco had left his mark on Harry now; an invisible one but no less searing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June update: I've been blocked and work on this has been slow, but I've got 7k so far and adding a little more every day. It's been a difficult year for me and I'm more than shocked than anyone that it's been a year and I still haven't finished this. Meanwhile, feel free to check out [my tumblr tag for this fic](http://magpiefngrl.tumblr.com/tagged/cornwall-fic) which I update sporadically.


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